


In Between

by Greens



Series: The Quest for Orion [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-01
Updated: 2013-02-01
Packaged: 2017-11-27 18:23:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 24,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/665061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Greens/pseuds/Greens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Sherlock manages to get himself and John ejected from Harrods at Christmas, the boys make the acquaintance of Baker Street newcomer, Mary Morstan. At around the same time, a message from Jim Moriarty forces Sherlock to seek help from an ‘old friend’.  As Mary and John grow closer, the question of who this ‘old friend’ may be rattles John’s brain. Just who was this man to Sherlock? How exactly was a man who Sherlock hadn’t been in contact with for years going to provide aid to the detective? And what sinister plan does Moriarty have up his sleeve this time? (AU starting during a Scandal in Belgravia)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [holmes_big_bang](http://holmes-big-bang.livejournal.com/). Make sure to check out sarlyne’s art for this fic, which is amazing! [HERE](http://ihave-ablanket.livejournal.com/3521.html) I also just want to say thanks to sachtastic who stuck with me through this process as my beta/brit-picker. I learned quite a bit. Comments=LOVE! I hope you enjoy this:)
> 
> Also, In my head canon, Victor Trevor= Tom Hiddleston and Mary Morstan= Jessica Brown Findlay, so that's who I was picturing while writing:)

**_ THE BLOG OF DR. JOHN H. WATSON _ **

_December 17_

_ Christmas Shopping _

_So apparently Christmas shopping with Sherlock Holmes is much worse than a bad idea. We took the tube, (which in and of itself was a nightmare) to Harrods for a few last minute things. I usually do the majority of my Christmas shopping at the beginning of December, but I wanted to tie up a few things and thought that inviting Sherlock along would distract him from his boredom._

_Well, aside from hearing that Christmas was a pointless and useless holiday invented by big business to bring in customers, Sherlock proceeded to go on about how Father Christmas was an invented part of this whole plan-- as we were passing The Christmas Grotto. In true Sherlock fashion, he managed to get nearly every child who was waiting to give Father Christmas their list to cry. Needless to say, we were asked to leave-- immediately._

_So, I didn’t get anything I went out for and we were almost banned from Harrods for life, but at least one good thing came out of today. I did get to meet our new neighbor. (Read More)_

 

“You’re impossible!” John admonished as he walked ahead of Sherlock down Baker Street. “They’re children!”

 

“And children should be lied to?” Sherlock justified. “Really, John. Talk some sense.”

 

“Talk sense? Me? You’ve probably scarred them for life.”

 

“Children are resilient,” Sherlock flipped up his collar and pulled his coat closed tightly against the harsh winter wind. “They will survive.”

 

John turned to face Sherlock, continuing to walk backwards. “Are you telling me that you didn’t believe in Father Christmas when you were a child?”

 

“No.”

 

“Never? Not once?”

 

“Mycroft once tried convincing me that he was real,” Sherlock said. “He dressed up in some ridiculous suit thinking that I would be fooled. It was quite comical really. Mycroft may have been rotund, but he _certainly_ wasn’t jolly.”

 

John shook his head. “Impossible.” He spun on his heels to walk forward once again. No sooner had he faced forward, he felt his body collide with another.

 

John managed to keep his footing, but the young lady fell backward, her backside hitting the pavement.

 

“Dear God,” John gasped as he crouched down and extending his hands to the young woman, who took them to help herself up. “I am—so sorry.” He gently and slowly helped her to her feet. “Are you alright?”

 

The woman brushed herself off. “I seem to be in one piece.” She managed a laugh while attempting to push back her ruffledbrown hair. “I should really pay more attention to where it is I’m going.”

 

“Oh no,” John shook his head. “It was my fault. Are you sure you’re OK?”

 

“Oh, just give her your number,” Sherlock called as he continued past them.

 

John shook his head. “I’m John Watson,” he said, “And my rude companion is Sherlock Holmes. We live just down the road. 221B.”

 

“Mary.” She extended her hand. “Mary Morstan.” John shook. “Your friend,” she continued. “Is he always so disagreeable?”

 

John laughed. “Often.” He paused. “This flat, it’s been up for rent for months. It’s nice to see somebody finally moving in.”

 

“I was assured that the neighbourhoodwas nice,” Mary said. “The neighbours I met were friendly.” She shot a look in Sherlock’s direction.

 

“He’s really not so bad once you get to know him,” John defended. “Are you all moved in?”

 

“I’m still waiting on a few more things.”

 

“If you need any help, we’re just down the road.”

 

“221B,” she smiled.

 

“Right,” John smiled back.

 

“Well it was nice to meet you, John,” Mary said. “And your rude friend.”

 

“Maybe we’ll see each other about.”

 

“I don’t doubt that we will.”

 

“Well, bye.”

 

“Bye,” she smiled. “Good bye, Mr. Holmes,” Mary called to Sherlock, who dipped his head to her.

 

John stood back as Mary skipped up the front steps and into her flat. He took a few steps towards Sherlock and they both started down the street again.

John shook his head in disgust. “This is exactly what I’m talking about.”

 

“And what’s that?” Sherlock asked.

 

“You. If you weren’t so rude, sometimes, you might have more friends.”

 

“Friends,” Sherlock laughed. “They just get in the way, John. I am perfectly comfortable with the way things are. Besides, it seems that while you were flirting with the young lady…”

 

“Mary,” John interrupted. “And I wasn’t flirting.”

 

“While you were flirting with her, it seems you have forgotten that you have a ‘date’ this evening with—oh, what was her name again?”

 

“Jeanette,” John reminded him. “I haven’t forgotten, and I wasn’t flirting. I was being friendly. Really, Sherlock, you need to try it some time. It’s not that hard and less people would think that you’re just an arrogant berk.”

 

John inserted his key into the door at 221B Baker Street. The truth was, he had forgotten about his date with Jeanette. He knew now, however, that he needed to hurry if he wanted to be ready in time. Jeanette despised Sherlock Holmes and if John made her wait, he was sure that she would blame the whole thing on Sherlock, which in turn would cause another fight.  John didn’t need another fight, not with Jeanette and not because of something Sherlock did, or in this case didn’t do.

 

“Oh and John,” Sherlock called as John closed himself in his bedroom. “You should know by now that you’re a terrible liar.”


	2. Chapter 2

**_ THE BLOG OF DR. JOHN H. WATSON _ **

_December 25_

_ Happy Christmas _

__

_Well if that entire evening wasn’t just bloody awful. Sherlock embarrassed the guests again, no surprise. I tell him constantly that he needs to treat people better, but it’s like he doesn’t really know how and has no real desire to try. Jeanette dumped me, no big surprise there. I can’t seem to hold on to a girlfriend for very long these days._

_Sherlock did receive some bad news this evening from his brother, however, regarding the murder of Miss Irene Adler. I know that Sherlock says he is married to his work, but I also know that he feels more for Miss Adler than he allows himself to believe or admit. I’m worried about him falling back into the state he was in before our first meeting. Mrs. Hudson and I are taking turns staying with him over the next few days until he seems to return to normal. I am talking about Sherlock Holmes, however, so there really is no telling what ‘normal’ is._

_I’m just about to nip to the shopsfor some milk and biscuits. I know I probably won’t have any luck with everything closed, but basically I just need to get out of the flat for a while. (Read More)_

Snow had begun to fall as John stepped outside and shut the door to 221B Baker Street behind him.  He could hear the heartfelt tone of a violin as he stood beneath the window, and he turned his head upward, catching a faint glimpse of his flatmate. Sherlock’s body swayed as he bowed the instrument, pain evident in his expression. Even if he didn’t know how to admit it to anyone, Sherlock had cared a great deal for Irene Adler. Her brutal death had wounded him deeply. The violin offered him an escape from his thoughts, John believed. He would allow Sherlock that much.

 

Pulling his coat closed tightly against the snow and wind, John stuck his head out and looked first left and then right down the street. He wasn’t going far, but in this weather, a taxi ride was probably safer and definitely warmer. Alas, there was no taxi to be found and only a few cars drove down Baker Street. He began to walk down the block, against the harsh wind. He wrapped his arms tightly around his chest to fight the bitterness of the weather, but to no avail. Finally, he saw it, a lone cab.

 

“TAXI!”  John called out, throwing his hand up in the air to hail the cab. It was then that he heard the echo.

 

“TAXI!”

 

John looked across the street and smiled. Mary Morstan. She wore a tattered green scarf and a long red coat. Her hair was tucked into a winter cap and she too threw her hand out to hail what seemed like the only taxi cab in London.  She looked across the street at John as the car pulled to the kerb.

 

“Where are you headed?” John asked as Mary approached. “We could share.”

 

“Aberdeen Place,” she said, her cheeks flushed red from the cold.

 

John thought quickly. A drive to Aberdeen Place would only put him ten minutes total out of the way, perhaps fifteen due to the weather, and he really wouldn’t mind the company after the disaster of that evening.

 

“Is that too far out of your way?” Mary asked. “I could get the next one.”

 

“No,” John responded quickly. “No, not far at all.” He opened the back door and Mary did the same on her side. “Aberdeen Place,” John told the driver.  He turned to Mary. She had already removed her cap and was shaking out her long brown hair. John cleared his throat. “What’s—on Aberdeen Place? If you don’t mind my asking, of course.”

 

“My cousin,” she replied, loosening her scarf. “I promised I would visit him.”

 

“It’s a bit late for a social call, isn’t it?”

 

Mary laughed. “He’s a bit strange sometimes,” she said. “We’re really all the family we have left and it’s nice to get together, even if it’s for a short time. Besides, I know he would have liked to get together earlier, but he was at the theatre tonight, so…”

 

“See anything good?” John smiled, feeling comfortable and relaxed for the first time that evening.

 

“Oh, no— I mean—he’s an actor. Or at least—he tries. He’s been understudying this role for ages and I guess with it being Christmas…”

 

“He got his chance,” John smiled. “Good for him. Everyone has to start somewhere.”

 

“That’s what I tell him. He can be a bit impatient though.” Mary watched out the window through the snow as building numbers passed them by. “This is it, driver.”The cab pulled over to the kerb and Mary opened the door before reaching into her pocket.

 

“Don’t worry about it.” John put his hand on hers as she went to hand the cabbie her fare. “I’ve got it.”

 

“Are you sure?”

 

John nodded. “Have a nice time.” He smiled softly and she did the same.

 

“Thank you.” Mary pulled her hat back on and stepped out of the cab. “Happy Christmas, John.”

 

“Happy Christmas, Mary.”

 

Mary shut the back door of the cab and ran up to the building. John watched her as she seemed to disappear into the white blanket of falling snow.

 

“Where to, mate?” the cabbie asked, breaking John’s daze.

 

John sighed, sinking back in his seat. He didn’t even want biscuits anymore. “Baker Street. 221B Baker Street.”


	3. Chapter 3

_December 26_

 

John awoke with a start and a crick in his neck. He had fallen asleep in a chair again. He stretched his neck from side to side with a soft moan and allowed his eyes to focus on the room.

 

“Oh, I’m sorry, dear,” Mrs. Hudson apologized as she moved around the flat. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

 

John rubbed his eyes and sat up a bit straighter in his chair. “That’s quite all right, Mrs. Hudson,” he said. He pushed himself to his feet with an inward groan of discomfort. He really should learn not to fall asleep in an armchair. It was hell on his back.

 

The flat was still a mess from the night before; still festive, but with a splash of disorder. John turned his head uncomfortably to the left to view the clock on the mantelpiece. 8:30.

 

“Is he up yet?” John asked as he walked into the kitchen and turned on the coffee maker.

 

“Sherlock? Oh, dear. He didn’t sleep a wink last night, I’m afraid. I heard him all night long pacing around. It must be the news of that poor girl.”

 

“Irene Adler,” John sighed.

 

“She was special to him?”

 

John wasn’t quite sure how to answer.  She was an enigma, even to Sherlock Holmes, but John had never seen anyone, man or woman, affect him the way that she did.

“I suppose she was,” he finally responded. “Yes.” John grabbed down a mug from the cupboard and then turned back to Mrs. Hudson. “Do you want a cup of tea?”

 

“Oh no,” she smiled. “I’m going over to Mrs. Turner’s. Have to see if there’s any good gossip about. Will you boys be all right?”

 

“Of course,” John nodded assuredly. “Don’t worry about a thing.”

 

There was a rustling behind them and John turned his head. Sherlock stood in the doorway in a dressing gown. His bare feet padded into the kitchen and he pulled his own mug down from the cupboard.

 

“You all right?” John asked. Sherlock didn’t respond. He simply poured himself a cup of coffee and walked out into the other room. John followed after him. “You want to talk about it?”

 

“No.” Sherlock responded simply.

 

John took a deep breath and cleared his throat. “Sherlock, I…”

 

“John.” Sherlock’s tone was tense, demanding John to drop his line of questioning.

 

“We’re just worried about you.” John folded his arms across his chest and tilted his head to the side.  “Mycroft…”

 

“Mycroft?” Sherlock laughed. “Now that—borders on the unbelievable.” Sherlock set his mug down and collapsed back on the sofa. He pulled his knees up to his chest. “No worries,” he continued. “This—is another day.”  Sherlock paused for a beat. “You don’t have any worrying to do. Not about me.”

 

John swallowed hard and he sat down in the arm chair where he had fallen asleep the night before.  Mycroft had been insistent. ‘ _Do not leave him to his own devices, John,_ ’ he had said.  ‘ _I trust that I can rely upon you to watch after him._ ’ Sherlock was too smart for a babysitter. He knew that he was being looked after and he detested it. John didn’t want Sherlock detesting him as well.

 

“I was thinking of going to the cinema,” John said, offhandedly and Sherlock shrugged. “You could come along if you like.” 

 

“Why would I want to do that?”

 

“Fresh air?”

 

“You don’t get fresh air at the cinema.” Sherlock said. “You get stale popcorn and flat coke. Why don’t you just invite your teacher?”

 

John shook his head. Of course Sherlock wouldn’t know. He could barely remember her name and now he could add her to the list of John’s girlfriends that had dumped him because of the great Sherlock Holmes. 

“Jeanette and I broke up.”

 

“A shame,” Sherlock said. “Then ask the new one.”

 

“The new one? The new what?”

 

“The new one, the girl down the street, the one you were flirting with last week. Ask her.”

 

“I wasn’t—Sherlock, I wasn’t flirting with anyone.”

 

“Mary…” Sherlock thought hard. “Mary Morstan. She seems the type to enjoy the cinema. Ask her.”

 

John sighed. “Maybe I’ll just stay home.”

 

“Let me tell you something, John,” Sherlock leaned forward, placing both feet flat on the floor. “Every year, over Christmastime, my brother Mycroft gains a conscience. It doesn’t last very long and there is no telling when it will happen, but when it does, he convinces himself that I am some sort of child who is unable to make decisions on my own. I assure you that I am more capable of this than my dear brother would like to believe.” Sherlock paused. “So she’s dead—The Woman—people die, John. That’s what happens. People live and then they die. Who was she to me?”

 

John remained silent for a moment. “I don’t know,” he replied slowly. “Only you can answer that question, Sherlock.” John rose to his feet. “But something about her was different—made you different. Admit it, or don’t, but that’s something that I can’t do for you.”

 

Sherlock sighed deeply. He shot to his feet, walked over to the window and picked up his violin. Without saying another word, he began to bow the instrument. The music fell from the strings slowly and emotionally, sounding like the tears that Sherlock refused to shed for the woman who he wouldn’t admit he had cared for.

 

There was no use in trying to talk to him now. When he was caught up in the music, Sherlock was unreachable. It was as if his mind went to a completely different place when he was playing.  John stood from his seat. Staying at the flat was pointless. He cared about Sherlock and worried, like Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft, that he remain safe, but sitting around and babying the man would be of no use to either Sherlock or anyone else.

 

John moved out of the room and into the entrance way. He put on his coat and grabbed his keys and mobile phone from the table by the door.  With a sigh, he turned on his mobile and composed a text:

 

_To: +447479460365                                                          09:27_

_Sherlock hasn’t slept. He’s tuned me out and is playing sad music. –JW_

John fastened his coat and stepped out of the flat. The snow had stopped falling, but the wind still blew in blistering gusts.  More cars drove down Baker Street than the night before and it was much easier to find a cab, but John decided that today, he would much rather walk. Without a destination in mind, he started down the road, exchanging the occasional ‘Merry Christmas’ with people he recognized before his mobile bleeped. John removed the phone from his pocket:

 

_From: +447479460365                                                                                    09:35_

_I trust that you are seeing to his wellbeing. I would hate to hear otherwise. –MH_

 

John shook his head with an exasperated huff.  “Then I just won’t tell you,” he grumbled, shoving the phone back into his pocket.

 

“I see that overdose of Christmas cheer has left you with a touch of a mental affliction.” John spun on his heels to see Mary standing behind him, on the steps leading up to her flat. “Talking to yourself now?” she laughed.

 

John took a few steps closer to her, smiling.  “I see you made it home in one piece,” he said. “I was thinking about you last night.” He paused, cringing inwardly. “I mean—I don’t mean I was thinking about you…” His voice grew to a whisper. “Jesus…”

 

Mary laughed. “Whenever you want to stop digging,” she smiled, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

 

“That might be a good idea,” John shuffled uncomfortably, with a soft chuckle.

 

Mary finished walking down the stairs and came to a stop beside John. 

“Going anywhere special?” she asked, defusing the awkward situation.

 

“Just for a walk.”

 

“Where’s your friend today?”

 

“Sherlock got some bad news last night,” John told her sadly. “He’s taking some alone time.”

 

Mary’s shoulders fell. 

“Is he all right?”

 

“He’s Sherlock. He grieves in a different way than the rest of us.” He paused. “I’m not sure he really knows how to feel.”

 

“Was it family?”

 

John shook his head. He wasn’t quite sure how to describe Irene. 

“She was—someone he had come to know quite well over the last few months.”

 

“A girlfriend?”

 

John raised his eyebrows and took a deep breath. “It’s complicated and a long… long story.”

 

“All right.” Mary smiled and started to walk the opposite way down the street, slowly. “I was just going to get a nice cup of tea. I wouldn’t mind the company if you wanted to come along.”

 

“I—would like that very much.” John smiled in return. He doubled back in the direction from where he just came and fell into an even stride with Mary. Perhaps, he thought, things were finally looking up.

 

As John and Mary made their way back down Baker Street and passed 221B, the melancholy sound of the violin could still be heard and Sherlock’s silhouette was clearly visible from where they stood on the street. John paused momentarily and tilted his head back to see up into the window. Mary mirrored him.

 

“Sherlock?” she asked, watching the outline in the window move to the music. John nodded. “He’s quite talented.”

 

“It’s his outlet,” John said with a sigh. “It’s what he does when he wants to think, when he doesn’t want to think.”

 

“There are worse things, I suppose.”

 

John thought about Mycroft’s worries; the worries he had passed to Mrs. Hudson and John himself. He couldn’t bear to imagine it.

“You’re right,” he said simply.  John turned away from the window and gestured in the direction of Speedy’s. “Shall we?”

 

Mary walked ahead of him into the delicatessen and loosened her scarf as she found a seat towards the back of the café.  John ordered their drinks, two teas, and promptly joined her. 

“I was thinking the other night,” John said as he handed Mary her cup. He shook himself out of his jacket and took a seat across the table from her. “I remember a Captain Morstan from when I was stationed in Afghanistan. There isn’t any chance there’s a relation?”

 

Mary’s face lit up. “My dad,” she beamed. “I didn’t know that you were in the Army.”

 

“Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, Medical.”

 

“And a doctor.” Mary took a slow, careful sip of her tea. “The mystery of John Watson begins to unravel then.”

 

John laughed heartily for the first time in a long time. “I’m really not all that mysterious.” He sat up straight in his chair. “More of an open book, really.”

 

“Did you know him?”

 

“Your dad? Only of him,” John explained. “He was spoken of highly amongst the men. A lot of guys were—really upset to hear that he’d been killed.” He paused. “I’m really sorry.”

 

“Thank you,” Mary said softly. She paused a moment and cleared her throat gently. “So when did you get back? From Afghanistan.”

 

“A little more than a year ago,” he began. “I found myself back here in London.”

 

“Are you going back or are you out for good?”

 

“I’m out. It was a—medical…,” John swallowed. He still hated talking about it. “I got shot.”

 

Mary’s hand went up to her mouth. “Oh, John…” she spoke softly. “I’m sorry.”

 

John shook his head.  “No. It’s okay. It wasn’t too serious. I have scars.” More than just the physical one, he thought to himself. “That’s all really.”

 

“And where does Sherlock Holmes fit into all of this?” Mary asked.

 

“Would it be too melodramatic to say that he saved my life?” John sipped at his tea. “It was as if we were meant to meet. I was looking for a flat share and it just so happened that Sherlock and I shared an acquaintance who he had mentioned the same thing to earlier on the day we met.”

 

“Seems like a wonderful coincidence.”

 

“We met on a Saturday and moved in on Sunday,” John laughed. “It’s probably the craziest, most rash thing I’ve done in my life.”

 

“But you get on well,” Mary said. “That’s what matters.”

 

“My sister said the same thing,” John laughed. “Except when she said it, it was prefaced with, ‘You idiot. What’s the matter with you?  He could be a psychopath’.” John shook his head and smiled. “He’s just…” Out of the corner of his eyes, he caught a glimpse of a figure that he knew too well, rush passed Speedy’s window. “Sherlock?” John’s shoulders fell. “Christ,” he said softly. “I’ve got to go.” He got to his feet. “I’m sorry. Sherlock, he…”

 

“It’s okay.” Mary nodded, understandingly.

 

John grabbed his jacket and hurried for the door. He stopped suddenly and turned back to the table where he had been sitting. “Do you like the cinema?” he asked as he got himself into his coat.

 

“I do,” Mary smiled.

 

“Do you want to go—sometime—with me?”

 

Mary laughed softly and leaned forward in her seat. “John Watson,” she said. “Are you asking me on a date?”

 

John took a breath and returned her smile. “I believe I am. Yes,” he added more definitively.

 

Mary stood up and walked over to the deli counter. She reached over, picked up a ballpoint pen and a napkin and quickly but neatly scribbled her mobile number on it before approaching John.  She placed the napkin in his hand. “I would love to.”

 

“I’ll—call you,” John grasped the napkin in his hand.

 

“You’d better get a move on if you want to catch up with him,” Mary gestured towards the door.

 

“Sherlock…” John said under his breath. “Right.” He put the napkin in his jacket pocket and backed quickly towards the door. “I’ll—I’ll call you later.” He called as he exited the deli.

 

Mary stood back, smiled and shook her head. She was finally beginning to feel at home on Baker Street.


	4. Chapter 4

_December 26_

The text had come through about an hour after John left the flat. Sherlock never heard or paid attention to much, if anything, while he was playing his violin. It was only when he stopped to make notations on his manuscript paper that his mind opened up for just a moment and it was in that moment that he heard his phone notify him of a new text. The sound it made, however, wasn’t his normal tone, it was personalized, and it belonged to _her_.

 

Sherlock spun on his heels, dropped the violin onto the armchair and reached for his mobile phone.   He slid his finger across the screen to unlock it and brought up his text messages. The newest one jumped to his attention:

 

_From: +447079460796                                                                    10:35_

_Couldn’t stay dead. Too early for dinner. How about tea? Marylebone High Street. –IA_

He shouldn’t go. The rational part of Sherlock (which was the part that made up the majority of his psyche), reminded him that Irene Adler was dead. Sherlock had identified her himself. He had seen her body and he could not have been mistaken. His powers of observation were extraordinarily keen. Sherlock had been wrong before however. It didn’t happen very often, but there were occasions when Sherlock Holmes had let the details fall between the cracks, if ever so slightly. Was this somebody’s idea of a terrible joke, or was The Woman still alive? The text did come from her phone; it consisted of her almost witty flirting, and above all, although he would never openly admit it, it made Sherlock jump. This text made him want to already be on Marylebone High Street. He wanted to prove to himself that he was wrong and that Irene Adler was in fact alive.

 

Sherlock sped to the door and grabbed his coat and scarf. He shoved his mobile into his coat pocket and stepped out of the flat, slamming the door behind him. He closed his eyes for a moment, mapping out the quickest path to his destination, taking all things into consideration. He decided that the fastest way to discovery was by foot.

 

Just outside 221B, Sherlock took a sharp left and headed passed Speedy’s. He continued at a run for a moment before coming to an abrupt stop. Why was he running towards this meeting like a love-struck teenager? He wasn’t sure, for the first time, what was going through his head. What effect had Irene had on him? Why was he acting like a fool? There was no need to rush off to a meeting with the dead woman. She would wait if she knew he was coming, so he pulled his mobile phone from his coat pocket and did something else he had never done before. He responded to her text.

 

_To: +447079460796                                                                          10:47_

_Stay there. On my way. -SH_

“Sherlock!”

 

 Sherlock shut his eyes with a sigh as he heard John’s voice behind him in the distance. The last thing he needed right now was John getting in the middle of something that Sherlock wasn’t sure of.  His brain jumped into overdrive again. Sherlock knew the back streets and alleyways much better than John did. He would be able to lose the doctor in no time. With a quick calculation, Sherlock pulled a tight left turn, another left and then a long right, turning himself around in the correct direction. It was better this way. John would be worried and he would probably call Mycroft, but Sherlock didn’t care. He could deal with Mycroft, as he had done so many times in the past.

 

Sherlock slowed to a walk. He attempted to play through the multiple scenarios in his head and made a mental list:

 

  1. Irene Adler was in fact alive and had somehow faked her own death in hopes of protecting herself from somebody or something.
  2. Irene Adler was in fact alive and had somehow faked her own death in hopes of protecting another person from somebody or something.
  3. Irene Adler was in fact alive and had escaped death from somebody who had “killed” her or tried to have her killed.
  4. Irene Adler was truly dead and this entire meeting was a setup to draw out Sherlock in an attempt to ambush him for some reason.



 

Whatever point came to fruition, Sherlock needed to prepare himself.  He could handle Irene Adler, but he didn’t like entering a situation where he could be caught off guard. Could Moriarty be behind the message?  Could he be attempting to exact some sort of vengeance on Sherlock? Surely not, but Sherlock needed to be prepared for anything.  His phone went off again.

 

_From: +447079460796                                                                    11:02_

_Beginning to think you’re standing me up.  How very unlike you. –IA_

Sherlock broke his own rule once again and responded.

 

_To: +447079460796                                                                          11:03_

_Unexpected delay. Arriving at destination shortly. I’ll have mine with sugar. –SH_

Sherlock sent the message and paused momentarily. This was Irene Adler, he could feel it. It was a feeling deep down in his gut, one he wasn’t usually keen on following, but there was something different about this time. There was something he was feeling that he wasn’t quite sure how to describe.  Sherlock breathed in deeply with a huff and continued on his way, feeling as if he was far enough now from John to travel the main route.

 

Within five minutes, Sherlock came to a stop outside the café on Marylebone High Street. He flipped the collar up on his coat and stood outside for a moment allowing his mind to clear. His focus was broken by the tone of his mobile once again.

 

_From: +447079460796                                                    11:10_

_Are you going to stand outside all day or are you coming in? I’ll be in the private room in the back when you’re ready.  –IA_

Sherlock gave his eyes a small roll and waited not a minute longer before pushing his way, nearly dramatically, through the front door. He had a deeper and more firm determination now to get to the heart of this matter. Sherlock ignored the stares of the customers at his display and he ignored the barista’s ‘What can I get for you’. He simply, and with purpose, strode to the back of the establishment and pushed into the closed off room.

 

“And here I was thinking you weren’t coming.” Irene Adler sat facing the door, her hair swept back into a gentle twist and wearing an olive colored dress.  She took a sip of her tea. “I should have known that my invitation would be too intriguing to ignore.”

 

Sherlock sat down at the table, directly across from her without saying a word and loosened his scarf. Irene leaned forward, placing her cup back on the table.  Her face grew serious watching Sherlock’s expression.

 

“You want to know what happened.” It was more of a statement than a question. Suddenly, it was as if her teasing demeanor had changed and Sherlock took note. 

“How shall I put this?” she continued delicately, “I seem to have gotten myself mixed up with—the wrong type of person, a man whom I believed would be able to be of some great assistance at some point in the future. I was—very, very wrong.”

 

“And this man’s name?” Sherlock asked, already knowing what response to expect.

 

Irene looked him directly in the eyes. “Moriarty.” 

She took a deep breath, followed by another sip of her tea. “He seems to know you very well,” she added.

 

“I would be insulted if he didn’t,” Sherlock replied, reaching out his hand and gently lowering Irene’s which still held her tea cup. “Obviously he’s done something that warranted your disappearance, your death in this case.”

 

Irene released her hold on the cup, but left her hand remained unmoved for the time being. 

“I do admit that death was a bit overdramatic.”

 

“Only a bit.”

 

“I knew that my being dead would throw Moriarty off my trail -if only for a while- ~~,~~ but when he did learn that I had indeed faked my death, there would be no safe place to be.”

 

“Except for the heart of London,” Sherlock said sarcastically.

 

“Except for with you.” Irene slowly pulled her hand out from underneath Sherlock’s. Sherlock sat up straight in his chair, his shoulders squared. He didn’t say a word and Irene laughed softly.

“I’ve gone and embarrassed you,” she smiled.  “Allow me to explain. I’ve seen how James Moriarty operates. He’s overconfident because he believes that he is more intelligent than you. I’m not entirely sure that’s accurate.” She paused and gave her lips a lick before continuing. “However, my dear Sherlock, he is most certainly nowhere near as clever as the two of us together.”

 

“That’s not it,” Sherlock said. “Not completely, there’s more.” Sherlock leaned forward in his seat. “You wouldn’t have summoned me here if it was just to outwit, Moriarty.”

 

Irene remained silent. 

 

“Fine.” Sherlock stood and turned towards the door.

 

“He wants you dead, you know,” Irene said. “He wants to see you suffer and he’ll stop at nothing.”

 

“I am more than capable of …”

 

“I don’t know what he’ll do to me,” Irene said.

 

“Then good luck to you, Miss Adler,” he replied, but didn’t move any further.

 

“Please,” her voice cracked slightly. “Sherlock…”

 

Sherlock closed his eyes momentarily and took a deep breath. He turned to face her, looked directly into her eyes for just a second and then turned back to the door and continued out.

 

Irene knew to follow him.


	5. Chapter 5

_December 26_

John knew that he was probably worrying himself for no good reason. What he should have known, however, was that Sherlock would elude him in the streets. If Sherlock Holmes didn’t want to be caught up to, he wouldn’t. So, John had headed back to the flat to wait for his return and hoped that Sherlock hadn’t gotten himself into too much trouble.

 

John’s phone had rung a dozen times and he didn’t even need to look at the number to know that it was Mycroft. The man must have truly been worried to for him to phone. Much like Sherlock, John knew that Mycroft preferred texting and for him to dial there was something that was greatly concerning him. At this point, Mycroft definitely knew that John and Sherlock were not together; the man probably even had CCTV set up to watch while he was in the loo.

 

John knew that he should probably pick up the phone if he didn’t want a visit from Anthea, but he was in no mood to be chastised by the elder Holmes. He cared about Sherlock and his well-being, but John couldn’t be expected to spend his every waking moment following him around like a shadow. Sherlock was an adult and needed to be treated as such.

 

John picked up his mobile and was prepared to text Mycroft when he heard Sherlock’s voice downstairs.  He shoved the phone in his trouser pocket and sat quickly in the arm chair. He reached over for the newspaper. When Sherlock walked in, he would see that John wasn’t worried, or trekking all over London looking for him.

 

“You’ll be safe here for the time being,” Sherlock said as walked into the flat.  “As long as John stops pretending to be busy reading last week’s news.”

 

John sighed. Every time. He looked up from his paper, blinking twice in a futile attempt to unsee what was clearly impossible. “You’re dead,” he said slowly.

 

“He’s a quick one, isn’t he?” Irene said, as she followed Sherlock into the flat. “So nice to see you again, Dr. Watson.”

 

“But— you’re dead. You died…” John stammered, rising to his feet.

 

“Apparently not,” Sherlock seemed at ease with the entire thing. “Really, John, start by seeing what’s right in front of you.”

 

“Why don’t you try enlightening me?”

 

Sherlock sighed deeply. “Moriarty.”

 

“Moriarty? What does he have to do with this?”

 

Irene began to answer, but Sherlock cut her off.

 

“Miss Adler, believing that Jim would be of some sort of amazing assistance to her, entered into a binding contract that would only be considered void with her death- so she died.” He looked at her, “And quite brilliantly I might add.”

 

“Thank you,” Irene smirked.

 

“How did you manage it? It was nearly flawless.”

 

“Trick of the trade.” She bit her bottom lip. “I can’t be expected to disclose all of my secrets now.”

 

John rolled his eyes. “If you two could stop flirting for just one minute,” he said before taking a deep breath. “If she stays here, won’t Moriarty come after us?”

 

“Yes. Which is why she won’t be here long,” Sherlock explained. “Moriarty still thinks that she’s dead, which works in our favour for now.”

 

“Great,” John added sarcastically. “So she has what, a few days, a week maybe? Then what, Sherlock?”

 

“I have a friend.”

 

Both John’s and Irene’s heads shot quickly to stare at him. Sherlock Holmes didn’t have friends.

 

 “Well—an old friend. We’ve been out of touch, but he’ll help. All I need to do is contact him.”

 

“How much better off am I with him than here with you?” Irene asked.

 

“He has the means to keep you hidden,” Sherlock explained. “I trust him implicitly. I would trust him with my life and you can trust him with yours.”

 

John simply listened. Why had he never heard of this mystery friend? Who was he and how did Sherlock know him? Sherlock didn’t trust anyone as deeply as it seemed he trusted this man, but John had never so much as heard his name.

 

“But for now,” Sherlock continued, “You’ll stay in my room and away from the windows.”

 

“Very commanding,” Irene smiled. “Not something that I’m used to, but we’ll work on that.”

 

Sherlock gestured in the direction of his bedroom and Irene brushed passed him, closing the door once she was inside.

 

“Are you—out of you mind?” John ran his fingers back through his hair. “Moriarty has a vendetta against you already. This just makes matters worse.”

 

“We are in no danger,” Sherlock said. “Do you think I would have brought her here if we were?”

 

“Yes.” John said, almost without thinking. “Actually, I know you would have brought her here. Just—face the fact, Sherlock, that there is something about this woman that—entices you.”

 

John’s mobile rang again, but he ignored it still.

 

“She needs our help and I am going to give it to her.”

 

“Because she would do the same thing for you, right?” John’s phone rang again. He dug it out of his pocket and declined the call. Sherlock ignored him and started back down the stairs. “Sherlock!”

 

“You really should call Mycroft back,” Sherlock called. “You know how he worries.”

 

“Where are you going?!”

 

Sherlock spun on his heels and looked back up the stairs, “To start tracking down an old friend.”


	6. Chapter 6

**_ THE BLOG OF DR. JOHN H. WATSON _ **

_January 1_

_ Happy New Year _

_A very Happy New Year to everyone. Here’s hoping that this year is just a bit better than the last one. Let’s face it; it couldn’t be any worse, right?_

_We still have our guest hanging around the flat. I really don’t have too much more to say on that matter that I haven’t already said—to basically anyone who would listen. Honestly, I don’t know how much more of this I can handle, but Sherlock has assured me time and time again that soon enough, this “old friend” of his will arrive with a solution. It couldn’t be too soon for me._

_Then, there’s Mary. I don’t know what to say about Mary. We’ve been seeing each other for about a week now and I already feel like my life is so much different than it was before. We connect on a level that I don’t think I’ve ever connected with someone before. That, and I don’t think I’ve ever met another person who is willing to put up with Sherlock.(Read More)_

“One more time,” John said, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets and slumping his shoulders. “For the love of God. I can’t even take a shower in the morning without her walking in on me. And she has no shame. There are certain things that a man should be able to do in his own flat…”

 

Mary laughed, linking her arm in his.

 

“I’m so glad that you think this is funny,” John shook his head.

 

“Come on, John,” she said through the giggles. “She’s been staying with you for a week now, right? Let me ask you something then,” she pressed herself closer to him as they continued to walk. “Can you tell me about Sherlock?”

 

“What about him?”

 

“You had told me once that Sherlock was—fond of this woman, right?” Mary paused as John nodded. “So?”

 

“It does seem—that he’s a little more at ease knowing she’s there, that she’s safe for now.” John paused. “What I want to know is who this friend is.”

 

“Is it so hard to believe that before you two started sharing a flat Sherlock had a friend?”

 

John stopped walking a looked directly at Mary. “Have you even met the man?” he asked.

 

“You don’t know,” Mary pulled him along. “He could have been a different person before meeting you. People change, John.”

 

John had known enough about Sherlock to know that he had in fact changed during the years before they met. He didn’t know too many of the details, but he did know about Sherlock’s substance abuse and the fact that he had gone through rehab. If that wasn’t change enough in itself, John wasn’t sure what was.

 

“Why does this bother you so much?” Mary continued. “The idea of Sherlock having another friend, why do you hate that?”

 

“I don’t,” John defended a bit too fast. “I—don’t.”

 

Mary came to a stop this time, laughing again. “John Watson,” she smiled, playfully punching him in the arm. “Are you jealous?”

 

John scoffed in response.

 

“You are,” Mary shook her head, still laughing. “You’re jealous. That’s adorable.”

 

“Oh stop,” John said. “I am not jealous.”

 

“Jealous.”

 

“Mary.”

 

Mary still laughed, but began walking again.

 

“OK. Fine,” she teased him. “You’re not jealous.”

 

“I’m not,” John replied definitively.

 

They continued down Baker Street in silence, Mary still holding onto John’s arm. She remained quiet for a moment, smiling inwardly at both the thought of John’s jealousy and the fact that Sherlock did indeed have another friend.

 

“Oh!” Mary recalled suddenly, glad to break the silence. “Did I tell you that my cousin got an offer to read for a show on the telly?”

 

“No.”

 

“Turns out, when he was filling in at the theatre on Christmas there was some executive there or something,” Mary beamed. “They’re filming a new kids’ show and think he’d be fantastic.”

 

John smiled. “That’s wonderful.”

 

“He’s terribly excited,” she smiled. “Oh, and listen to this. I told him what you said—about him finally getting his shot. He said that you sound and I quote, ‘Absolutely brilliant.’ You remind him of somebody that he used to know. I think you’d get on well, you two.”

 

John smiled and Mary pulled closer to him as they came up on her flat.

 

“Sadly, this is my stop,” she leaned in and kissed him gently on the cheek. “I’ll talk to you later when your new flatmate drinks the last cup of tea or something.”

 

Her shoulders shook gently with her laughter.

 

John couldn’t help but smile as he shook his head, “Very funny.”

 

And true, he thought. He found himself needing to vent his frustrations a lot lately, and Mary was a brilliant listener.

 

Mary continued her soft laughter as she turned her key in the lock. As she stepped through the door, she turned back to him with a smile and a wave.  John mirrored the movement and then Mary slowly shut the door.

 

John stood outside her flat for a moment longer, lost in thought and grinning like a fool. He had dated his share of women, but never had he found somebody who made him feel the way that Mary did. He had never been able to reveal himself so openly.

 

“Excuse me, mate.”

 

John was shaken from his state by a younger sounding male voice. He turned to see just that, a taller man, just over six feet with light blue eyes and brown hair.

 

“I seem to have lost my bearings somewhere,” the man continued. “This is Baker Street, isn’t it? Can you point me in the direction of 221B?”

 

John looked at him, studied his face. He didn’t look familiar.

 

“Can I ask what your business is there?” he paused. “That’s my flat.”

 

“Oh,” the man was a bit surprised. “Then perhaps I have the wrong address. I was trying to find Sherlock Holmes.”

 

“We share the flat,” John replied, still watching the other man’s face. “What do you need with Sherlock?”

 

 “He’s expecting me,” the man answered. “We’re—old  friends.”

 

He extended his hand. “Victor Trevor,” He introduced himself.

 

John was taken aback momentarily. This was him. This was the man who he had been attempting to envision for the past week. He looked to be around Sherlock’s age. Had they grown up together? Why had John never heard Sherlock mention Victor’s name before?

 

“John—Watson,” John shook the other man’s hand. He continued, “I’m heading back that way now.”

 

“Wonderful.” Victor smiled.

 

Damn, John thought. Even his teeth were perfect. He didn’t understand. If Victor and Sherlock had been such good friends, what happened?

 

“So, are you his boyfriend then?” Victor asked with a surprisingly straight face just as they began to walk towards the flat.

 

John choked. “You’re very forward, aren’t you?”

 

“Some might call it a character flaw of mine.”

 

“No,” John replied to his earlier question. “No, he’s not my boyfriend. He’s my flatmate.”

 

“Has he got himself a boyfriend then?”

 

Was this who Victor Trevor had been? Had he been Sherlock’s lover? He could perhaps just be a very curious old friend, or flat mate, somebody who had been out of touch for far too long. John still couldn’t make that distinction.

 

“I think maybe that’s something you should be asking him.” John led the man further down Baker Street.

 

“Does he still play the violin at three in the morning?”

 

John laughed. “On occasion.”

 

“And the smoking?”

 

“He quit,” John somehow felt that he was giving up too much information on his friend, “sort of.”

 

“How does one ‘sort of’ quit smoking?” Victor mused.

 

“He’s Sherlock.”

 

“True.” Victor laughed softly. The look on his face told John that he was recalling something from times past.

 

“How long’s it been—since you’ve seen him?” John asked.

 

“Almost—ten years.” Victor’s voice changed suddenly.

 

“Jesus,” John spoke before he had the chance to think about it. He could tell that the man knew the exact amount of time, probably down to the minute.  It was solidified in John’s head at that very moment; Victor Trevor had been much more than a friend to Sherlock Holmes. He held a very important spot in the detective’s history. 

 

John bit his tongue. He knew enough to quiet himself as they finished their short journey. Using his peripheral vision, he inspected Victor’s expression. Was he nervous? Anxious? Ten years was a long time to wait to then walk back into somebody’s life. Sherlock had seen no issue in getting in contact even with the amount of time that had passed since their last meeting and Victor had no issue with showing up on Baker Street.

 

“This is it,” John gestured with his hand to the door as they stopped in front of the flat. He dug through his trouser pockets for the key and then let himself and Victor inside.

 

They heard the music immediately. Sherlock was playing the violin and once again, John watched Victor’s face change and brighten.  He knew the smile that graced the man’s face. John had worn the same smile earlier that day while with Mary. He started up the stairs, followed by Victor.

 

Sherlock must have heard them, two distinct sets of male footsteps, because in the middle of the musical phrase, his bow stopped abruptly. He lowered his violin down to his side, but his back remained facing the door.

 

John watched Sherlock’s shoulders rise and fall one time, as if he was taking a deep, calming breath.  John stepped away from the door, but Victor did not.  It was as if time had frozen on them. John looked from Sherlock to Victor and then back again to Sherlock. He felt like an intruder suddenly.

 

“Are you just going to stand there?” Victor asked. His eyes were still trained on the back of Sherlock’s head.

 

Sherlock placed his violin down gently and turned to face the doorway.

 

“Victor,” he said slowly and softly, approaching him.  “You look well.”

 

“Me?” Victor stepped further into the room. “Look at you.”

 

Suddenly, Sherlock broke into a wide smile, which Victor reflected back and the two of them fell into a hearty embrace. With this reunion, John saw something on Sherlock’s face that he realized he had never truly seen before: complete happiness.


	7. Chapter 7

_January 1_

_To: +447479460365                                                                                          16:48_

_What can you tell me about Victor Trevor? –JW_

The moment he pressed ‘send’, John regretted it. His curiosity was ruling his brain and it was not healthy. Why couldn’t he just trust that Sherlock knew what he was doing? Why did he feel the need to involve Mycroft in his brother’s affairs? It had never been like this before and John felt as if he were betraying Sherlock by confiding in Mycroft.  It was barely sixty seconds later that John’s mobile buzzed.

 

_From: +447479460365                                                                                    16:49_

_Get in the cab that just stopped in front of your flat. We need to speak. –MH_

John shut his eyes and bit his bottom lip hard, shaking his head. It had been a simple enough question, why did he think that there would be a similar answer? He heard the taxi honk its horn from where he stood in his room.

 

“Sherlock!” Mrs. Hudson called up the stairs. “Did you call a cab, dear?”

 

“That was me!” John shoved his mobile in his pocket and rushed from his room. He didn’t even stop to look in Sherlock’s direction as he continued. “I’ll be back—later.”

 

He was sure that Sherlock knew that his sudden departure had something to do with Mycroft. John didn’t want to hear it, or have to explain himself to his flatmate.

 

John rushed down the stairs, and got into the back of the cab. He didn’t say anything and the driver started down the street. He tried to make sense of everything in his head, but was having no luck. Hopefully, Mycroft would be able to shed some light on what John wanted to know.

 

The ride seemed much longer than it actually was. John remained silent up until the point when the cab came to a stop. He stepped out of the back, surprised that it wasn’t Anthea who met him, but Mycroft himself.

 

“Where did you hear the name Victor Trevor?” Mycroft asked without as much as a greeting.

 

John was caught off guard, but he wasn’t about to let Mycroft push him.

 

“Who is he?” John asked. “How does he know Sherlock?”

 

Mycroft turned around and started back towards an old building. He raised his hand as he walked, gesturing for John to follow him. John didn’t hesitate, taking to a trot to quickly catch up. 

 

The building was vacant, as were most of the structures where Mycroft conducted business. It held but a single office towards which John was ushered. The walls were bare and a grey, drab colour. The wooden desk, which was far too large for where it sat was also cleared, most likely because Mycroft spent so much time bouncing between buildings, John thought. Mycroft motioned towards a chair and John sat. Mycroft pulled his chair from behind his desk and sat directly in front of John. He was exposed, John thought. What would make this meeting so important that Mycroft needed to be up close and personal?

 

“Who is he?” John asked again. “You wouldn’t have dragged me all the way down here if there wasn’t something I needed to know.”

 

“Why don’t we start with you telling me what you already know?” Mycroft crossed his leg at the knee and sat up straighter in his seat.

 

John took a deep breath and let it out with a sigh. He leaned forward, his forearms resting on his legs, above his knees.

 

“This is not a game, Mycroft.” John was firm, but he saw by the look on Mycroft’s face that the man would not be moved. John relaxed himself from his defensive posture and leaned back slightly in his seat. “Sherlock said that they had been friends. I know that they haven’t seen each other in years…”

 

“And deservedly so. That boy—I say boy, he must have been twenty-four the last time I saw him.” Mycroft stiffened where he sat.  “He was a part of the darkest time in Sherlock’s life.” He shook his head. “Sherlock was never one to make friends easily,” Mycroft explained.  “He was always far too clever for boys his age. It wasn’t until he went off to university that he was able to connect with another human being in such a way.

 

“He met Victor purely by accident. He was as friendless as my little brother, so it only made sense that he and Sherlock would get on. We were all pleased that Sherlock was making social connections, so we didn’t think twice about it.”

 

John cocked his head to one side, confused. “So what’s so wrong with him?”

 

“You know that Sherlock had his—issues with illegal narcotics.”

 

“I know he’s used before, yes,” John nodded. “Did Victor get him hooked?”

 

“No, but he was in an opportune position to do something about it and did nothing. He allowed Sherlock to spiral into near destruction.”

 

John was unsure how to respond. “Maybe there was nothing he could do.”

 

“Victor Trevor, in his own way, is a man of means.”

 

“As are you.”

 

“Yes,” Mycroft affirmed. “And I secured my brother a bed in a treatment facility, not Victor Trevor.”

 

“So you dislike him because he couldn’t get Sherlock to enter rehab?”

 

“They were— _very_ close.”

 

“They were lovers.” John decided to voice his own deduction.

 

Mycroft laughed softly, but not disapprovingly, “The look on my brother’s face when Victor walked into a room…”

 

John knew. He had seen it with his own eyes.

 

“But he left.” John couldn’t make heads or tails of it. “I’m assuming while Sherlock was in rehab.”

 

“He stayed, waited for a long time, would have continued to wait.”

 

“But…” John sensed it coming.

 

“An opportunity arose that he simply couldn’t pass up.”

 

John felt his heart sink with disappointed. He couldn’t manage to keep his mouth from falling open.

 

“You—paid him off.”

 

Mycroft remained straight faced. “An opportunity arose…”

 

“That he couldn’t pass up. I get it,” John was angry now. “I’m assuming that you had nothing to do with them not contacting each other for more than ten years either.”

 

Mycroft didn’t respond.

 

“Really, Mycroft. If he was so happy…”

 

“Victor Trevor was a reminder of darkness, the lowest time in Sherlock’s life.”

 

“That depends who you ask, I suppose.” John refused to sit and listen to him any longer. He got to his feet.

 

“They forgot about each other eventually. Sherlock went on to do great things, am I not correct?”

 

Mycroft didn’t know. He didn’t know that Victor Trevor had come back to London, to Sherlock.  Victor was a professional. He managed to fly under the radar, under Mycroft’s radar. Nobody could do that.

 

 “Sherlock did go on to do great things,” John nodded. “But at what cost?”

 

“Just the right one.”

 

John turned away from him without another word and walked towards the door. He stood just outside it when he heard Mycroft speak again.

 

“You never did answer my question. Where did you hear the name Victor Trevor?”

 

With his back facing Mycroft, John took a deep breath, closed his eyes and quickly concocted a lie.

 

“I saw it—on one of Sherlock’s old papers. I had never heard him mention it before and—I don’t know, I just got a feeling.”

 

“Hmm,” was Mycroft’s only response.

 

John couldn’t tell if Mycroft believed him or not, but he didn’t care. He had made a huge mistake in contacting Sherlock’s brother. He wasn’t sure how, but he knew that this was not going to end well.


	8. Chapter 8

_January 2_

 

John could smell the coffee brewing as he stretched out where he laid on the sofa. He groaned softly as the discomfort slowly became more noticeable. His neck was twisted and his back ached. It was strange waking up in a place where you didn’t recognize the wall coverings, but he found comfort in the fact that he did, in fact, know where he was. Family photos covered the walls. Mary had gone through them all with him the night before. Some were of her and her father and others were of Mary and her cousin, whose name he had come to learn, was Richard.

 

John had heard many stories, but the photographs, which had been taken a few years earlier, made everything real.  Mary and Richard didn’t share many physical similarities. Richard was tall, possibly almost as tall as Sherlock and his hair was the blondest John had ever seen. He was handsome, and well built, not at all the way John had envisioned him.

 

Mary had told him all about their adventures as children. John learned that when Mary was seven, she and Richard had gone to their first circus. It was a travelling act, with a fair and various booths. Mary loved the elephants and the trapeze artists, while Richard was fond of the fortune tellers and the palm readers. Mary recalled to John how every year, she and Richard would bet each other that the hypnotists couldn’t get them to go under. Each year, they both lost and would regale each other with the silly things the man had made them do while in a trance. It had become a tradition with them and Mary told the stories proudly to an enthralled John.

 

The sun was just beginning to poke through the window. As John moved himself to a sitting position with the minimal amount of pain possible, he smiled at the lyrical humming coming from the direction of the kitchen.

 

“You know I do have the ability to control myself,” Mary smiled and joked as she walked out of the kitchen and handed John a mug before taking a seat beside him on the sofa. “You could have slept in the bed last night.”

 

“I was fine out here,” John replied. He took a sip of his coffee; the warmth of it breathed life into his tired bones.

 

“You have your muscles call me later and tell me that same thing,” Mary raised her eyebrows, but couldn’t keep herself from giggling.

 

That smile, John thought, smiling back. Just the look on her face was enough to make him forget the discomfort he was clearly feeling. He watched her slowly sip at her coffee. She was just as lovely early in the morning before she had applied a drop of makeup. Her hair was pulled back sloppily into a high ponytail and a few small strands hung loosely across her face. John all but fought the urge to reach over and push them behind her ear.

 

“I’m not one to stick my nose where it doesn’t belong,” Mary continued. She leaned forward and placed her mug down on the table before practically reading John’s mind and pushing her loose hair behind her ears. She turned her body to sit cross-legged on the sofa, facing him.  “But you did just sort of show up last night out of nowhere. Did you and Sherlock have a fight or something?”

 

John’s shoulders fell. He didn’t have the heart to even go back to the flat the night before. He had felt terribly guilty for betraying Sherlock the way that he did. He couldn’t face his best friend, not knowing that he had told Mycroft about Victor. Sherlock would never tell John that he knew, but John would know, just by looking at Sherlock, that the man had deduced his secret. John felt horrible.

 

“John?”

 

“It’s—a bit of a story,” John sighed. “I made—a terrible mistake.”

 

Mary reached her hand out and rested it on John’s thigh, comfortingly.

 

“Something that he won’t forgive you for?”

 

“Something I don’t think I could ever forgive myself for,” John leaned forward and placed his own mug down beside Mary’s.

 

“Don’t you think you’re being a bit too hard on yourself?”

 

John shook his head before leaning it back against the sofa, “Not this time.”

 

“What on Earth did you do? You’re making it sound as if you’ve killed someone.”

 

John pressed his lips into a tight, thin line. He couldn’t possibly make things any worse by telling Mary. He had already basically told Mycroft, which was the equivalent of radioing the entire British Government.

 

“You remember that friend of Sherlock’s?”

 

“The one you were giving yourself a coronary over? How could I forget?”

 

“He showed up yesterday,” John continued. “Right after I saw you home. I just couldn’t let it go, any of it, who he was, who he was to Sherlock—why it had been more than ten years since they spoke… so I—I texted Mycroft.”

 

Mary’s face shone of sudden sadness. “You told his brother?”

 

“I wish I hadn’t,” John shut his eyes. “I feel like I turned him into the police.”

 

“You need to talk to him,” Mary said gently. “To Sherlock.”

 

As John shook his head, Mary let out a soft sigh.

 

“He’s your best friend,” she said.

 

“I should have just asked him in the first place.”

 

“Then ask him now. You can’t hide out here forever, John.” She leant forward and pressed a soft kiss to his temple. “I love the company, I do. But I can’t have you sleeping on my sofa every night. People might talk.”

 

Her words made John smile. They were reminiscent of just nine months earlier. That memory stirred in John another feeling as well: panic, fear; and the name, Moriarty. He remembered the darkened swimming pool, he could feel the explosives strapped to his chest and he could visualize the dark haired weasel of a man who was prepared to have him killed, just to get to Sherlock.

 

“You’re right.” John managed to snap himself out of his own memory.

 

“Of course I am,” Mary said matter-of-factly, with a tiny smile gracing her lips, teasing him. “I always am. I thought you would have picked that up by now.”

 

“I’m not as clever as you think.”

 

“You are one of the cleverest people I know, John Watson.” Mary took his hands, making him turn to face her. John looked her directly in the eyes. There was no kidding behind her expression, only honesty. “Don’t let anybody ever tell you differently. You are brilliant.”

 

John waited a moment to let her comforting words absorb into his brain. She really did think he was brilliant. There was no lie and no exaggeration behind her voice. This touched John deeper than he expected. He had never truly thought of himself as brilliant. Sherlock was brilliant, with his quick thinking and his high sense of observation. His deductions put everyone to shame. Not John. John was average, he was ordinary, and nothing about ordinary was brilliant.

 

“Now,” Mary spoke, breaking John’s thought process. “Get yourself off my sofa and go home.”

 

“Do I at least get to finish my coffee?”

 

Mary acted as if she was thinking for a moment. She tapped her finger on her chin and looked up towards the ceiling before turning her eyes back on John.

 

“No,” she finally said. “No. Sherlock’s probably worried about you.”

 

John laughed then. “Sherlock doesn’t worry about me if I don’t come home at night.”

 

“Maybe not openly,” Mary explained. “But I’m sure he does, even if he doesn’t admit it.” John said nothing, so Mary continued. “I don’t know why you’re constantly selling yourself short, John, especially when it comes to Sherlock. So, he’s clever. So what? What does being so intelligent really get you in the end?”

 

John didn’t want to think about it. He had seen ‘the end’ more than once while running with Sherlock Holmes and he had thought about exactly what Mary was saying. He didn’t want to come up with an answer then either. He already knew what would become of his life if Sherlock’s ended. He liked to think that Sherlock would be equally devastated if it was the other way around. Mary was just speaking the truth. John couldn’t fault her for that.

 

“I should get going then,” John said simply. He slowly got to his feet and then turned.

 

“You’ll call me later?” Mary reached out from where she sat and grabbed his hand.

 

“If I remember correctly, my muscles owe you a call anyway,” John smiled. He allowed his hand to remain in Mary’s for a moment longer before gently pulling away. “Thank you.”

 

“Stay as often as you need,” Mary said as John neared the door.

 

John reached his hand out to turn the knob. “Not just for that,” he said. “For everything, just—thank you.”

 

They stayed in silence for a moment, John’s hand resting on the doorknob and Mary still sitting on the sofa. He took a deep breath. With a smile still on his face, John turned the knob, opening himself up to Baker Street and a brand new day.


	9. Chapter 9

_January 2_

 

Sherlock stood in the kitchen wearing his dressing gown and a pair pyjamas, his usually well-kept hair was ruffled and he adjusted his bare feet on the floor intermittently while fussing with the coffee pot. The flat was still quiet. Sherlock already knew that John had not come home the night before. If he had, they would have all been awoken when he found Irene sleeping in his bed.

 

Sherlock heard a pair of footsteps coming up behind him. They were heavy and bare, not a woman’s. When they stopped abruptly at the edge of the kitchen, Sherlock paused in his morning tasks.

 

“Are you still rubbish at working that thing?” Victor’s voice betrayed the slight lilt of a smile, Sherlock noted. “I seem to recall your coffee being horrendous.”

 

“It’s improved,” Sherlock answered. “Still not quite as good as John’s, but I would mark it as passable.” 

Sherlock paused to face him. Victor was equally dishevelled, his face covered with coarse stubble.

 

“I see you rearranged the furniture last night.” Sherlock gestured towards the sitting room, where the two arm chairs were now pointing towards the window.

 

“Star-gazing,” Victor smiled as he brushed gently past Sherlock to pour himself a cup of coffee. “It was a clear night. I thought I would get a nice look. I thought maybe you would have joined me.”

 

“I don’t do that anymore,” Sherlock replied, simply. He reached across, in front of Victor, for his own mug, ignoring the apparent look of disappointment on the man’s face.

 

Victor looked in Sherlock’s direction with a frown. “You used to love the stars.”

 

“I used to love a lot of things,” Sherlock spat before reigning himself back in. “It’s been a long time. A lot of things have changed. The stars—they simply took up too much room, space I could use for a better purpose.”

 

Victor was familiar with Sherlock’s ‘recycle bin’, the space in his brain where he sent things that were no longer of any importance to him. 

“So you just deleted everything?” he asked. “The stars? Art? Did you delete art too?”

 

“Most of it.”

 

Victor sighed. “We knew each other for almost seven years. Did you delete it all? Did you keep anything?”

 

Sherlock moved away from him and into the sitting room. He took a seat on the sofa as Victor followed him into the room. 

“You,” he said. His face went unchanged. It was as if the response had been a simple one, as if Victor should have expected it.

 

Victor placed his coffee mug down on the windowsill; he found he didn’t want it anymore. He took hold of one of the arm chairs, turning it around and pulling it closer to where Sherlock sat on the sofa. He sat down on the very edge and leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. He intertwined his fingers and rested his chin on his hands. He remained silent for a moment, studying Sherlock’s face. It remained impassive, but it was easy for Victor to see the pain behind Sherlock’s eyes.

 

“I waited,” Victor swallowed hard.

 

Sherlock shook his head and raised his hands to Victor, stopping him from continuing. “You don’t need to apologize,” he said. “I know it was Mycroft. It’s always Mycroft,” Sherlock’s voice trailed off.

 

“I emailed you for a while. Even when you didn’t respond, I didn’t give up,” Victor sighed. “By the time I realized that Mycroft was probably intercepting everything I sent you—I just assumed that too much time had passed. You would have been out of rehab by then, you would have gone on with your life, fresh start.”

 

“Stop,” Sherlock spoke softly. He shook his head. “Why on Earth does it sound as if you’re laying blame for everything on yourself?” 

Sherlock waited for Victor to respond and when he didn’t, he continued, “You’re blaming yourself.”

 

“How can I not, Sherlock?” Victor asked. “When you needed me most, I disappeared.”

 

“Because of Mycroft.”

 

“Because of myself. I could have turned everything down and I could have stayed. You needed me and I should have stayed.”

 

“Mycroft would never have allowed it. You know him, you’ve seen his methods.”

 

“Well,” Victor nodded his head purposefully, “I’ve had plenty of time to work on a system of my own.”

 

“A system that rivals Mycroft’s from what I can tell. That’s why I contacted you.”

 

Victor took a deep breath and ran his fingers back through his hair. “You managed to track me down after all these years. Why—why did you wait?”

There was silence for a moment. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Victor said before lapsing into silence again. “I should—start getting things settled for—your friend.” 

Victor got to his feet and headed out of the room. Sherlock remained sitting for a moment before getting to his feet.

 

“You can come inside any time you’d like, John,” Sherlock said as he walked past the door. “And if there is anything else you’d like to know, there is no need to hide behind the front door.”

 

John sighed from where he stood. He should have known that Sherlock would know John had been eavesdropping. He had learned one thing however; Sherlock had been a different person in the past. He had been a different person with Victor. John didn’t know what was going to happen to Sherlock once Victor left London with Irene.  He wasn’t sure he wanted to.


	10. Chapter 10

**_ THE BLOG OF DR. JOHN H. WATSON _ **

_January 12_

_ And The World Collapses In Around Us _

__

_It has been nearly a week since Sherlock’s friend left our company with our temporary flat mate. When it comes to that woman, I can’t say that I’m sad to see her go. Good riddance. It’s been nice to shower in peace for the last few days. I like the return to normality._

_Sherlock, however, seems to have closed off. I know, Sherlock always seems closed off- how can I tell, you ask? This is different though. I can usually tell when he’s upset because he’s up until all hours playing his violin, but he hasn’t touched the thing since ‘he’ left. Not one note. In all honesty though, I’m more worried now than I was at Christmas that Sherlock will relapse. I’ve been going on revolving duty with Mrs. Hudson again. Hopefully that will help._

_Mary wants me to meet her cousin. She’s been planning this whole thing. Lunch, tea, I’m not really sure, but Mary’s really very excited about it. He is, after all, the only family she has left. It might be nice to meet the man she’s always speaking so highly of.  (Read More)_

“What’s wrong with the white jumper?” John spoke on his mobile as he walked around the kitchen and opened up the refrigerator. It was strange not coming face to face with one of Sherlock’s experiments, but Sherlock had been quiet lately. Ever since Victor left London with Irene, Sherlock’s demeanour changed. John was used to Sherlock’s moods, but this time was different. There was a different feel about it and John just couldn’t put his finger on it. If he were to guess however, he would say that Sherlock was depressed.

 

“I thought you liked the white one,” John continued, as he removed the milk, gave it a quick sniff and then poured a bit into his tea before returning it to its place in the refrigerator. “It’s really not a big deal, Mary. I don’t need to wear the jumper.”

 

Mary had been calling John all morning in a fit of nervous energy. She wanted everything to be right when John met her cousin. She had every detail planned, right down to how to smile when she opened the door to him. If John was honest, she was driving him up a wall with her worry that something would go wrong.

 

John reached out and grabbed a biscuit, nibbling at it as Mary spoke.

“I’m sure everything will be fine,” John said through the crumbs in his mouth as Sherlock shuffled into the kitchen. It was after noon and he was still wearing his pyjamas and dressing gown.

 

“No, I’m not eating.” John attempted to swallow the remainder of the biscuit. He gulped at his tea, the hot liquid burning his mouth. John did all he could not to moan in pain. “Mary, I have to go… I have to go. I’ll see you later… Yes... Bye.”

 

John clicked to end his call and rushed to run the tap on the kitchen sink.

“Jesus!” His mouth and tongue burned and he didn’t waste any time grabbing an empty cup and flushing his mouth with the cold tap water.

 

Sherlock paid him no mind. No witty remarks, no shake of the head, he went on as if John wasn’t even in the room. He simply opened the refrigerator, looked inside for a beat, then shut the door without taking anything out and walked back out of the kitchen.

 

John fanned his mouth as the burning subsided. With a shake of his head, he followed Sherlock into the next room, where he found his best friend curled up on the sofa, his back to the room.

 

“All right, enough—get up,” John said, shoving Sherlock’s shoulder just hard enough to nudge the other man. He paused a moment, waiting for some sort of response from Sherlock. “Up. Get up, Sherlock. I’ve dealt with your moods. I’ve experienced the days without speaking, but enough is enough with—this.” 

He gestured to Sherlock. John plopped himself on the edge of the sofa where Sherlock’s feet were. He took a deep breath and let it out with a sigh. 

“Please,” he continued gently. “Will you just talk to me?”

 

Sherlock shifted, his bare feet pressing against John’s leg as he swung himself upright. He sat with his hands wringing uncomfortably, staring straight ahead as if he were deep in thought.

 

John twisted in his seat to face him. He hadn’t noticed how pale Sherlock had come to look, how dark the circles under his eyes were. It was as if he hadn’t slept at all in the last week. John watched as Sherlock pressed his lips into a tight thin line and drew a deep breath in through his nose. He knew Sherlock was going to speak, but he wasn’t exactly sure how long it was going to take for his friend to get the first word out. They sat like that in silence for several minutes, John listening to the clock on the wall tick away each second.

 

“I was eighteen,” Sherlock finally spoke. He made no effort to look in John’s direction, but kept his forward stare. “I was in my first year at university. I had spent my younger years in boarding school, away from Mummy and Father, but this was different. I was finally out in the world—on my own, still a child, but an adult in my own mind.

 

“At the beginning of my first spring term, I was returning to my room, walking across the campus, I was reading a book—I knew where I was going, so there really was no point in watching my every step. What I hadn’t expected was that dog.” Sherlock leaned over and rolled up the right leg of his pyjamas. John was taken aback by the scar that marred Sherlock’s skin. There was no doubt in John’s mind that it had been put there by a set of teeth.

 

“I don’t remember walking into the beast, but apparently I did, because the creature latched onto my leg and refused to let go. As much as I screamed, the animal’s jaws tightened. Until—over the searing pain I was experiencing, I heard one word. One word from a young man, who sounded terrified, and the dog released my leg and lay down at my feet.”

 

John tilted his head to the side, listening actively to Sherlock’s recollections. He didn’t dare interrupt him. He could see the change on Sherlock’s face as he recalled this moment from his past. It was clearly something that he hadn’t thought about for a very long time.

 

“Of course, by now, the commotion had attracted the attention of hordes,” Sherlock continued. “Most of them just wanted to see me laying on the ground writhing in pain, but this young man—Victor—I’ve never heard somebody apologize more.”

Sherlock paused and remained quiet for a moment. “I needed thirty-five stitches and Victor he wouldn’t leave me alone. He came by my room every day for weeks. First, it was just to see if I was okay. I wasn’t used to it, somebody caring like that. Then he began staying longer. We shared interests, he reminded me of myself, an outcast.

 

“Time passed, we grew closer. We were always together, inseparable and—we…” Sherlock stopped again.

 

John had never seen Sherlock search for words. He had never seen the detective, who was always so eloquent, at such a loss. He decided then, to speak up.

“You fell in love,” John said and Sherlock only nodded. “So what happened?”

 

“After University, we found a flat. It was small, but it was the first place that we felt belonged to us. I started working with Scotland Yard, unofficially, of course, but Victor couldn’t find a job. He was brilliant, but that didn’t help. He picked up odd jobs here and there, but he was never happy. The only thing that helped, as soppy as it sounds, was that we had each other.

 

“When I began to—dabble, Victor never abandoned me. He tried to help, but I insisted that I didn’t need any. Rehab was for people who had problems and I certainly did not have a problem.” Sherlock paused, the anguish clear in his tone. “I always believed that Mycroft thought Victor didn’t do enough. That’s why he arranged for Victor to ‘find a job’ outside of London while I was in rehab. It was something that Victor had been working for, that he longed for. I don’t blame him for leaving. He got what he wanted in the end, what he needed. But so did Mycroft, he always does.”

 

John could feel his heart hanging heavily in his chest. Sherlock was opening himself up; he was being so uncharacteristically sentimental. John felt, for the first time since meeting him, that he and Sherlock were having a truly honest conversation, as one sided as it was.

 

“So you went your separate ways then,” John concluded. “After all that time.”

 

“There was no point in contacting each other. Mycroft intercepted anything he didn’t want being delivered: emails, phone calls, the post. After a while, Victor gave up. So did I.”

 

Sherlock still wasn’t looking at him, but John had never been able to read the man as well as he could at that moment. Never had Sherlock seemed more like a regular human being than he did right now.

“So what made you think that you would have been able to find him now? Ten years is a long time to go without contact.”

 

“I didn’t know,” Sherlock admitted. “Over the years, I tried to follow Victor, even though I knew that any sort of contact wouldn’t be received. About five years ago, he disappeared. One day, he was simply gone, without a trace. I knew he hadn’t died. I would have heard if he did. He was just gone.”

“Victor was always so terribly brilliant.” Sherlock shook his head with a soft laughter and John smiled at the small grin that finally graced Sherlock’s lips. “I knew that he had found a way to go completely undetected. He was a ghost. I didn’t know the reason, nor did I care, but I knew then, that if I ever needed to find him, there had to be a way—and Mycroft would never know.

 

“I won’t bore you with the details,” Sherlock continued. He finally turned in his seat to face John. “It’s much too complicated for you to understand. But to put it as simply as possible—I sent out a message that could only be meant for Victor and that could have only come from me. It took a week, but he showed up on Baker Street, did he not?”

 

John nodded.

 

“And Mycroft was none the wiser. You went to him, did he know about Victor’s visit?”

 

Of course Sherlock would know that John had gone to see Mycroft. John had probably set something terrible into motion by just mentioning Victor’s name to Sherlock’s brother. John cleared his throat.

“No,” he said. “No, Mycroft didn’t know and I didn’t tell him.”

 

“It must be driving my dear brother mad.” Sherlock chuckled as he collapsed back in his seat. His head thumped gently against the cushion. Just the fact that Mycroft didn’t have any idea what was going on pleased Sherlock to no end. But, just as Sherlock’s face had begun to show a hint of hope, his lips drew flat again. “It was very nice seeing him again.”

 

John could almost hear Sherlock say, _‘I wish he could have stayed,’_ but the words never passed the man’s lips. His silence however, spoke loud enough for John, who had experienced enough disappointment to know heartbreak when he saw it, even in the great Sherlock Holmes. He wasn’t sure what to say. Any type of condolence would shut Sherlock out even more. He couldn’t say he understood, because Sherlock would come up with a reason (possibly several) why John honestly couldn’t understand. Thankfully, Sherlock didn’t pause for long.

 

“I am fine,” Sherlock said, as if reading John’s mind. “I’m bored, but I’m fine.”

 

“Sherlock…”

 

“I just need a case, a murder, a kidnapping. We haven’t done a kidnapping in a while.”

 

“I know, I just count the days until a child goes missing,” John said, sarcastically, shaking his head as his mobile rang. He looked at the ID: Mary.

 

“Wear the brown one,” Sherlock said, pushing himself to his feet.

 

“What’s that?”

 

“The light brown jumper. Mary hates the white one; she just can’t bring herself to tell you. So wear the brown one and she can stop calling you, worrying that everything go as planned.” Sherlock started to walk out of the room.

 

“Where are you going?” John asked before answering his mobile.

 

“To put some trousers on,” Sherlock responded, calling back over his shoulder. “Have you seen the time?”

 

John shook his head with a smile and then spoke into his phone. “Mary?” he said. “How do you feel about the brown jumper?”


	11. Chapter 11

_January 12_

 

At approximately two in the afternoon, John stepped up to the door at Mary’s flat. He tugged uncomfortably at his brown jumper, not having remembered how itchy it had been. Perhaps that was the reason why it was shoved to the back of his chest of drawers.  At least Mary hadn’t talked him into wearing a tie. John Watson did not pull off ties well.

 

It was surprisingly warm for the middle of January, so John had opted to wear a light jacket in lieu of a heavy winter coat. He adjusted his stance unconsciously and rang the bell. It hadn’t been more than ten seconds before the door swung open and Mary appeared.

 

She wore a light blue top, accented with small embroidered flowers and a knee length black skirt. She had her hair pulled back into a neat ponytail.

 

“You wore the brown one,” Mary said, stepping aside to allow John to enter.

 

John was taken aback slightly. “I thought you liked the brown one.”

 

“Maybe I should change.” She looked herself over. “I should change, right?”

 

“Mary.”

 

“What was I thinking? This is all wrong.”

 

“Mary.”

 

“I’ll change.”

 

John took her gently by the arms. “Stop.” He smiled, reassuringly. “You look amazing.”

 

Mary giggled softly, shaking her head. “You’re a liar.” She gazed into his eyes, searching them for just a hint of a fib. “Really?” she asked cautiously. John nodded and Mary reached out to pick fluff off his jumper. “I just want everything to go well.”

 

“I know,” John replied.  “Everything’s going to be fine. It’ll be—perfect. You’ll see. I don’t know why you’re so nervous.”

 

“Richard is the only family I have. I want him to like you.” She paused and shifted nervously. “I mean—I know he’ll like you, I just—I want you to like him and I want you two to get on and…”

 

John spoke slowly. “You are getting worked up over nothing. Don’t worry. Just stop, take a deep breath.” He paused. “Go on.”

Mary smiled and drew in a slow, deep breath.

“Good,” John nodded. “Just relax. You have nothing to worry about. Better?”

 

Mary nodded and took John’s hands.

“This is exactly why I let you keep coming round.” She laughed softly, taking her right hand and cupping John’s cheek.

 

“And here I am thinking it’s because of my breath-taking charm.”

 

Mary leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to John’s lips. “No, that’s just one of the many reasons why I love you.” She thumbed at his lips, wiping away the remnants of her lipstick. “I’m going to touch up my makeup,” she said with a smile as she pulled away from him slowly.

 

John watched as Mary headed off to her bedroom. He felt like a grinning fool, head over heels for this woman. He had never felt this way before. It was a brand new feeling for him and he liked it. John was shaken from his daze by the sound of the doorbell.

 

“That’ll be Richard!” Mary called from the other room. “Let him in, will you? I’ll put on the tea.”

 

John cleared his throat and brushed his hands down the front of his jumper before straightening his stance. He made his way to the door and gave himself a reassuring nod before swinging it open. His heart nearly stopped beating the moment he came face to face with the man standing on the other side.

 

John felt his head spin while staring at the man wearing a neatly pressed suit and well-styled dark hair. This man was not the fair haired, green-eyed Richard whom Mary had shown him in all of her photos. This was somebody much more sinister.

 

“Moriarty…” John managed to choke out.

 

“No,” Jim Moriarty smirked, his teeth tugging on his bottom lip. “Well yes, but—no.”

 

“What the hell are you doing here?”

 

“Oh, Doctor. I’m disappointed.” Moriarty laughed, shaking his head. “ For somebody who has been spending so much time with Sherlock Holmes, I thought you would be smarter than this. I thought perhaps his brilliance might have rubbed off on you. Too bad; you had potential.”

 

“What—are you doing here?” John could do nothing but repeat his previous question.

 

“It’s been far too long, hasn’t it?” Moriarty asked. “Since that whole mess at the pool. I’ve been keeping an eye on you, John. You and Sherlock. A few sets of eyes, really. I never thought you had it in you to catch one like Mary. It’s a shame she had to become part of this.”

 

John lunged forward and grabbed Moriarty by the collar, pinning him against the door jam with a thud.  

“If you lay one finger on her…”

 

“I wouldn’t hurt your precious lamb,” Moriarty managed. “She’s just a pawn in my game. Have you figured it out yet?” He waited for John to loosen his grip. “You wouldn’t have now. You’re just not as fun as playing with Sherlock.”

 

“John? Is it Richard?” Mary called. John could hear her footsteps approaching in the distance.

 

“Release me,” Moriarty demanded, his grin growing wider. “You are going to want to see this. It’s masterful if I do say so myself. Oh the things I come up with when I really try.”

 

John let him go and Moriarty stepped forward, into the flat as Mary approached them. John made a point of watching her face. There was just a split second of questioning as Moriarty stepped inside. He gave his shirt sleeves a gentle tug just below the shoulder and brushed his hand over his hair as if making sure that each piece was still in the right place. Then, Mary smiled.

 

“You two have met then,” Mary beamed, hugging Moriarty. John stood back, observing. “I’m so glad you could come, Richard.”

 

John took an unsteady step back but managed to keep himself upright. His breath caught in his throat and his jaw fell open slightly. Moriarty was clearly not the man who Mary had gone on about. There wasn’t a single similarity between them, but here they stood and Mary was calling the man Richard. John was perplexed.

 

“Are you alright?” Mary asked. “John?”

 

“Hmm?” He watched as Moriarty turned where he stood and glanced at John with a smirk on his face.

 

“Are you alright?” she asked again. “You look a little flushed.”

 

“Oh it must be the sudden change in temperature, such a warm day. Very—unexpected.” Moriarty smiled. “Isn’t that right, John?”

 

John couldn’t find his words; he was in such utter shock. He wasn’t quite sure what Moriarty had done or how he had done it, but Mary honestly believed that he was her cousin. She believed that this man was the same person who accompanied her to the theatre and to the circus. She believed him to be her only remaining living relation. How?

 

“You really look terrible.” Mary’s worried tone resonated with John. He felt terrible, but not for the reason she believed. He was not about to leave Moriarty alone with her.

 

“I’m fine,” John cleared his throat. He wiped his hand over his brow.

 

“Maybe you should take your jumper off,” she suggested. “Should we do this another time?”

 

“Unfortunately,” Moriarty stepped towards John. “I can’t stay anyway. I need to get to the studio. I just wanted to come by and meet John. I’m quite sure we’ll be seeing—a lot more of each other.”

 

“Absolutely,” John didn’t take his eyes off him. “You can be assured of that.”

 

Moriarty smirked. “Until then.” He turned. “Mary, it was good to see you.” 

He started towards the door and John followed him.

 

“I don’t know how you did it,” John said firmly. “But I will figure it out.”

 

Moriarty laughed. “No, you won’t. This is too big for you, John, and it’s just the start. Something’s coming. Something that will shake you to your core and, try as you might, there is nothing—you can do to stop it.” He backed through the door and out onto the street. “This game, Doctor, is far from over. Oh! It’s only just beginning.”


	12. Chapter 12

_January 12_

 

“Sherlock!”

 

John almost tripped over his own feet as he took the steps two at a time up to the flat. He couldn’t even remember pushing his way inside, but soon he found himself in the main room, face to face with his flatmate. John dug his heels into the floor and Sherlock watched him with barely an interest until the next word passed John’s lips.

 

“Moriarty.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes widened and his ears perked. John had his attention.

 

“He’s not gone, Sherlock,” John continued. “I saw him. I just saw him and—I don’t know…”

 

“You’re rambling,” Sherlock drawled.

 

“Will you just listen?” John’s voice rose. “He’s not playing his usual mind games this time. He has very literally—found his way into Mary’s head.”

 

Sherlock raised his eyebrows in curiosity. “Your latest?”

 

“It’s all a plot to get to us,” John continued. “He’s somehow convinced Mary that she knows him, that he’s her cousin. I’ve seen photographs of her cousin, Sherlock. Moriarty is not him.”

 

“But she’s convinced?” Sherlock began to pace, cycling through possibilities in his head. “Are they similar?”

 

“Not in the least. Even if they were, don’t you think that she would be able to recognize her own cousin? They grew up together. They’re close.” John paused and took a deep breath in an attempt to calm himself slightly. “I tried to observe him—them. I don’t know if it’ll do any good. I don’t know how he did it.”

 

“You wouldn’t.” Sherlock plopped down on the sofa. His legs bounced rapidly and his fingers drummed against each other. “When she looks at the photographs, who does she see?”

 

“Richard—her cousin. Her real cousin.”

 

“And when she looked at Moriarty?”

 

John took to pacing now, his fingers running through his hair. “The same; It was as if she was looking at the same person.” He paused, thinking back, momentarily. “There was—a spilt second where it looked as if she didn’t recognize him.  But it was such a short amount of time, it hardly seems significant.”

 

“Of course it’s significant!” Sherlock barely allowed John to finish his statement. “Everything is significant, John. Have you learned nothing?” Sherlock rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “Did he touch her?”

 

“No.” John shook his head. “Wait, yes.”

 

“Which is it?”

 

“Yes. But—not until after she acknowledged him by name.”

 

Sherlock shook his head.

“It’s not chemical then. What else?” He looked directly at John, who was not answering quickly enough for Sherlock’s liking. “What else, John? What else? Think!”

 

“Nothing.” John shook his head. “There was nothing. I grabbed him on the way in, I was rough with him and— he laughed.  He’s been watching us, Sherlock. He’s had others watching us for him.”

 

“Others?”

 

John thought back. “He said that there were ‘a few sets of eyes’ watching us. So he’s working with somebody else, a few others.”

 

Sherlock shut his eyes with a groan. “What a fool,” he said, jumping to his feet. “I was such a fool! She didn’t need my help. I should have seen it, why didn’t I see it?”

 

“What are you going on about?”

 

“Irene Adler, John! She wasn’t trying to escape Moriarty, she was working with him. Oh, I’ve walkedright into her trap.” Suddenly Sherlock’s face changed. It was as if all of his blood had drained away.

 

“Sherlock?”

 

“What does he do for a living? Moriarty as Richard.”

 

John thought back again, quickly. “He’s an actor, a storyteller on children’s TV.”

 

“Find copies of his recordings, John.” Sherlock was already half way to the door, his coat in his hands. “As many as you can, and start to look into the real Richard.”

 

“Where are you going?” John called after him.

 

Sherlock stopped only momentarily and spun around to face him. “I sent Irene away with Victor. I’ve dragged him right into the middle of this and now his life might be in danger. I need to get word to him and hope I’m not too late.”

 

Sherlock didn’t wait for John to respond before racing out the door and hailing a cab. John stood back and attempted to catch his breath. He didn’t know where to start. Even after all the time he had spent with Sherlock, starting an investigation had never fallen to him. Momentarily, he was at a loss.

 

Finally, John reached into his pocket, pulled out his mobile phone and dialed the only number that immediately came to his mind.

 

“Sarah…” he said. “It’s John. Listen, I need you to do me a favor—an under the radar kind of favor… I can’t tell you why, just know that it’s really very important… I need you to pull up everything you can find on a Richard Brook. B-R-O-O-K— approximately thirty, a little over six feet, blonde hair… Everything, even the last time he got a cold… I owe you. Thank you.”

 

John ended the call and once again thought quickly, dialing another number. He waited as it rang once, twice and then finally a voice on the other end.

 

“Greg—John Watson.  You have nieces, right?.. They watch that storyteller show—the one on Cbeebies?.. Oh, they do? Do you think you could get me copies of those?.. Very funny. I’m serious… As soon as possible… Thanks, Greg.”

 

John hung up the phone and shoved it back into his pocket with a deep, heaving sigh. The only thing he could do now was wait for Sarah to get back to him and for Lestrade to steal the recordings of The Storyteller from his nieces and John could only hope that Sherlock was able to send word to Victor in time.


	13. Chapter 13

_January 13_

 

John hadn’t heard Sherlock come home the night before, even though he had fallen asleep, once again, in the armchair.  What did finally cause him to stir ~~,~~ was the sound of a familiar voice within the flat. John didn’t even allow his eyes time to adjust to waking as he uncomfortably turned his head to the right with a moan. He was relieved to see Sherlock sitting on the edge of his chair in front of the television.

 

John slowly got to his feet and moved over to where Sherlock sat with his eyes glued to the screen. He could tell that Sherlock hadn’t slept and that he hadn’t eaten. John wasn’t sure what to say or whether or not he should ask about Victor.  Luckily, Sherlock broke the silence between them.

 

“Lestrade came by late last night with the DVDs of this dreadful show,” Sherlock said, folding his arms across his chest as he leaned back in his seat. “They allow children to watch this?”

 

“Apparently.” John rubbed his eyes and settled himself on the arm of the chair where Sherlock sat. “What are you thinking?”

 

“I’m thinking that if I have to watch one more hideously spun fable about a horse and pig becoming the _best of friends_ , I might gouge my eyes out.”

 

Just the sight of Moriarty’s face on the screen began to make John’s stomach turn.

“What exactly are we looking for?” John asked as Sherlock hit the pause button.

 

Sherlock turned his body slightly in his seat.

“Tell me about Richard Brook, the real Richard Brook. What else do you know about him?”

 

John took a deep breath and shook his head. 

“I only know what Mary’s told me,” he said, “And what I’ve seen in the photographs. They’ve been close since they were children. They get together whenever they can.”

 

“What do they do when they’re together?”

 

John shrugged. “Ordinary stuff.” He paused. “I know that—since they were children, they visited a traveling circus every year.”

 

“A circus?”

 

“It became a tradition to them. The animals, the fortune tellers, the hypnotists…” John watched Sherlock’s face change. “What?”

 

“Hypnotists, John.” Sherlock bounded to his feet. “Oh, Moriarty is clever!”

 

“Wait,” John said, sliding from the arm of the chair to the cushion vacated by Sherlock. “Are you telling me that he has Mary hypnotized?”

 

“No,” Sherlock replied. “The fact that you’ve said that Mary recognizes her own cousin in the photographs proves to me that she is not hypnotized. She sees both the man in the photograph and Moriarty as Richard Brook. She may not be hypnotized, John, but she has been in the past.”

 

“Every year,” John stammered. “It was like a game with them, who would hold out the longest.”

 

“Brilliant! It’s brilliant, John. Don’t you see?” Sherlock asked and John shook his head, his mouth hanging open slightly. “She wouldn’t have known. All Moriarty needed to do was plant the idea in her head.”

 

“I’m lost,” John admitted. “What exactly are you suggesting?”

 

“You said yesterday, that there was a split second when Mary seemed as if she didn’t recognize Moriarty and then, suddenly, she did.”

 

“That’s right.”

 

“It’s a trigger, John,” Sherlock went on, “A notion, planted in Mary’s mind while she was under hypnosis, to respond to a specific cue while living her life in complete consciousness.”

 

“You’re saying post-hypnotic suggestion.” John couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You can’t be serious.”

 

“But I am,” Sherlock beamed. “Now, Moriarty can’t rely on Mary not seeing him on this God-awful program. The question is, however, will she watch from the beginning, will she flip through in the middle? He has no idea, so he needs to work his trigger in intermittently.” Sherlock paused. “You said that he never touched her. Did he say anything to her before she recognized him as Richard?”

 

John thought quickly, replaying the previous day in his mind. “No. He didn’t say anything.”

 

Sherlock bounded back over to the chair and resumed play on the DVD. “There’s a visual cue here somewhere. It’s something nuanced, something that the casual viewer most likely wouldn’t notice, or if they did, they wouldn’t pay any attention to.”

 

John’s mobile rang in his pocket. He removed it from his trousers and checked the ID. “It’s Sarah,” he said, stepping away from Sherlock and answering the phone.

 

“John,” Sarah’s voice sounded troubled on the other end. “That man you asked me about last night, Richard Brook…”

 

“Were you able to find anything?”

 

“I don’t know what’s going on and I know you told me not to ask. The last record there is of Richard Brook is from about a year ago, after that, nothing. But there was an unknown male matching the description you gave me found at about the same time in Regents Park.”

 

“Regents Park?”

 

“That’s where they found the body, John.” Sarah said. “I think he might be dead.”

 

John was struck speechless momentarily. Richard Brook had most likely been dead for almost a year. Moriarty had been planting this seed for that long. He couldn’t wrap his brain around it. He just didn’t understand. Why Mary?

 

“John?” Sarah’s voice sounded again. “Are you still there?”

 

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m still here. Thanks, Sarah.”

 

“Are you OK?” Sarah asked.

 

“Sure,” John lied. “Of course. Sarah, I have to go. Thank you.”

 

Sherlock looked over as John hung up the phone.

“Richard Brook is dead,” Sherlock said, reading John’s expression. “It makes sense. It’s the only way Moriarty would have been able to make his plan work. He couldn’t chance the real Richard getting in his way.”

 

“So he killed Richard—or had him killed to do what? Assume his identity for what reason?” John crossed back into the room and leaned against the arm chair. “Sarah said that he was killed almost a year ago. We only met Mary last month.”

 

“It only makes sense that his plan went deeper than we originally suspected. You simply threw a spanner in the works by falling for Mary Morstan.”

 

“She’s just a pawn,” John recalled. “That’s what he said. ‘She’s just a pawn in my game’.”

 

“He was an actor, Richard Brook,” Sherlock said. “Moriarty knew that if he could take over the life of this man, he could find a safe place for himself in the public eye, not as Jim Moriarty, consulting criminal, but as Richard Brook, Storyteller. He was creating a new persona, one that required just one person to provide undeniable proof of his false identity…”

 

“Mary.”

 

“He’s looking to discredit us, John. He’s trying to make it look as if Jim Moriarty never existed, as if we created him.”

 

“But, people have died,” John shook his head. “He almost killed me. If it comes to public attention that Moriarty was just an invention that would lead everyone to think that…”

 

“It was me,” Sherlock finished John’s statement. “The consulting detective was the real criminal all along.”

 

John’s shoulders slumped  and his eyes fell upon the television with Moriarty’s crooked smile on the screen as he told a story about a sly fox who decided one day to slip onto a farm. He watched as the camera panned out and Moriarty sat there in a blue cardigan, leaning forward to tell his tale. He gave his sleeves a gentle tug and straightened in his seat.

 

“That’s it.” John said suddenly, causing Sherlock to spin around where he stood as John grabbed for the remote control. He cued back the DVD and replayed it. “That there, with his sleeves.”

 

“Are you sure?” Sherlock asked as the sound of Mrs. Hudson’s footsteps were heard ascending the stairs to their flat.

 

“Yesterday, I grabbed him.” John said. “He did the same thing, pulled on his sleeves. That’s when Mary’s face changed. That’s when she recognized him.”

 

“Sherlock?” Mrs. Hudson spoke from the doorway.

 

“Watch through the videos,” Sherlock told him. “Be absolutely certain.”

 

“Sherlock, your taxi is here,” Mrs. Hudson spoke again.

 

“I didn’t call a taxi.” Sherlock replied.

 

Mrs. Hudson approached him and handed him a folded piece of paper. 

“The driver said to give you this.”

 

Sherlock moaned and took the paper from her hand. He opened it and took in the words. For a moment, he was silent. 

“The car is just outside?” he asked.

 

Mrs. Hudson nodded and John looked up at him.

 

“What is it, Sherlock?” John asked.

 

“Just—go through the rest of the DVDs,” Sherlock said as he grabbed his coat.

 

“But where are you going?” John called as Sherlock bounded down the stairs and out the door. “Sherlock!”

 

With what seemed like one swift movement, Sherlock was out the door and into the back seat of the cab.  There was silence for a moment before Sherlock finally spoke.

 

“I thought you had been killed,” he said with a deep sigh of relief. “I exposed you, threatened your life.”

 

“You never were very good at apologies,” Victor said, turning around in the driver’s seat. “I guess I’ll take what I can get.” He smiled brightly and shook his head. “I’ve told you, Sherlock. I’m like a ghost. Unless I want to be found, I’m not. Now—there’s something else bothering you. Tell me.”

 

Sherlock took a deep breath and motioned for Victor to drive. 

“Something is going to happen,” he said as they began to move down the road, “Something that has the probability of threatening the lives of John, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, everyone—everyone who is dear to me.”

 

“I guess Mycroft doesn’t fall into that mix?”

 

“Mycroft has the means of taking care of himself,” Sherlock said. “We’ve fallen into the mist of something huge, bigger than any of us and—I will not be coming back from it.”

 

Victor pulled the car over and spun around. “What the hell are you talking about?”

 

Sherlock’s eyes locked with Victor’s and he spoke slowly. 

“Today is the day that I make my final stand,” he said, watching as Victor’s face turned downward, “And I need you to be there. I need you to make sure that John understands. I need your help, Victor. Will you help me?”

 

“You never need to ask,” Victor said, swallowing hard. “You know I will. I’ll do whatever you need.”

 

Sherlock nodded. 

“I am going to need you,” he said. “I’m going to die today.”


	14. Chapter 14

_January 13_

 

Hours had passed since he had left John, and Sherlock’s mobile hadn’t stopped ringing. He knew what needed to be done. He knew that a confrontation needed to take place and he knew that if he picked up the phone to talk to John, he would never be able to do what he had to. Sherlock couldn’t explain to John why he was sitting on the rooftop of St. Bart’s and he couldn’t explain to him why he had sent word to Moriarty to meet there. John would have insisted on being part of the entire thing and Sherlock could not have that. He needed to ensure John’s safety and he trusted Victor to see to that for him.

 

Sherlock knew what Moriarty wanted and he knew the price; he had deduced it once he realized that Moriarty was hell-bent on discrediting him. There were eyes watching him, which meant they were watching John as well. They would have watched Victor if they could figure out how to find him. Nobody was safe anymore. Moriarty was going to see to that.

 

So, Sherlock sat on the rooftop’s edge, feeling the wind whip at his coat. He looked down over the side at the people walking past. They had no idea, nor did they care. They were simply going about their days. Sherlock had played through this scenario multiple times as he sat, waiting. He knew what to expect. He knew what every move would be and he knew the inevitable outcome.

 

Sherlock shut his eyes and took a deep breath, holding it for a moment before exhaling slowly. He heard the door to the roof creak open. It was time.

 

 

*****

Victor sat in the taxi in front of 221B Baker Street with his eyes glued to the door. What Sherlock had wanted was clear. Under no circumstance was John to go to St. Bart’s. Under no circumstance was Victor to lose sight of him and when the time came, Victor was to get to the hospital.

 

As he sat in the driver’s seat of the taxi, Victor glanced up at the window to flat. He watched John dial his mobile while pacing back and forth past the window. He was trying to call Sherlock, no doubt, but Victor knew that Sherlock would never answer. It was a matter of time before John would start making other calls, perhaps to Mycroft, or Scotland Yard. Maybe John would just assume that Sherlock had gone to face Moriarty on his own. Victor didn’t know too much about the doctor to be able to make conjectures like that, so for the time being, he waited and watched.

 

What Victor hadn’t noticed, was that each time John walked by the window, he took a look at the cab sitting outside the flat. John was suspicious, but was sure that if he made a move, the cab, and whoever was behind the wheel would be gone before he had the chance to approach it.

 

Sherlock had rushed out hours ago however, and even though John knew he probably shouldn’t be, he was worried. The cab sitting outside was not doing anything to calm his nerves and neither was the fact that Sherlock refused to answer his phone.

 

John dialed one final time and waited for the call to go to voicemail. He hung up without leaving a message.

 

“Where are you, Sherlock?” John thought aloud, glancing out the window again at the cab. He watched as smoke sputtered from the exhaust and he knew that this taxi was his last clue to finding out what had happened to Sherlock.

 

John couldn’t waste another moment. He rushed to the door and grabbed his jacket and keys. With a quick second thought, he sprinted upstairs to his room and grabbed his gun. As he shoved it into the waistband in the back of his trousers, John took a quick glance out the window to be sure that the cab was still there before heading back downstairs and out the door. He made it to the kerb just as the taxi was pulling away. He threw his hand out in a fit of urgency, keeping his eye on the taxi as another pulled up. John jumped in the back.

 

“Follow that cab.”

 

 

******

Sherlock slowly rose to his feet but kept his position near the roof’s edge, watching for Moriarty to appear.  He could feel his fists clench at his sides with both anticipation and nervousness, but forced himself to relax. He knew what was coming and that there was nothing he could do to change it. This had to happen.

 

“I was surprised to get your message,” Moriarty’s voice echoed over the empty rooftop as he stepped closer to Sherlock. “What exactly was it? _‘I know your secret.’_ I never had any doubt that you would figure it out. Well—just a little.”

 

“It was rather brilliant, convincing Mary Morstan that you were her dead cousin.”

 

Moriarty smirked and let out a laugh. “I know, wasn’t it? It was much too easy, really. And although I would love to take credit, even I didn’t guess that your John would fall for my Mary. That was all just a very pleasant coincidence. While I was busy amassing an army, he came right in and added the perfect finishing touch.”

 

“I will admit the bit with Irene Adler was inspired.”

 

“She did bring that boyfriend of yours to light. I can call him that, can’t I?” Moriarty paused. “He’s a hard one to keep track of, Victor Trevor. Even your brother never mentioned him during our little chats.”

 

Sherlock’s face showed the slightest bit of shock and surprise. Had Mycroft been working with Moriarty? Had his own brother turned against him?

 

“Oh don’t be so dramatic,” Moriarty shoved his hands in his pockets and came to stop mere feet in front of Sherlock on the roof’s edge. “Dear Mycroft probably didn’t even realize that he was telling me everything I needed to know to build my plan against you. For somebody who is so bright, sometimes your brother can be spectacularly ignorant.”

 

“And what exactly was your plan?” Sherlock asked, searching Moriarty’s face for amusement, which was clearly found.

 

“You already know that, Sherlock,” Moriarty said. “We wouldn’t be up here if you hadn’t figured it all out by now, how I was going to discredit you, make you look like a fake, an imposter, a murderer. I had a solid alibi, a blood relation so to speak. She would have vouched for everything, how I was just an underpaid, underappreciated actor. But you, Sherlock, you had to go and ruin everything!”

 

Moriarty shifted his weight, swaying back and forth from foot to foot like a pendulum. He kept his eyes locked on Sherlock as the breeze blew over them. Sherlock’s eyes darted to the street, where he saw a cab pull up in front of St. Bart’s.

 

“Here is our dilemma, Sherlock,” Moriarty spoke again. “I wasn’t able to finish what I started. I desperately wanted to see your name disgraced in the newspaper. We still might be able to get that front page headline though.”

 

“And how is that going to happen?”

 

“You don’t think that Mary was my only plan, do you? You’re losing your touch, Sherlock. I’m disappointed. All those eyes I have working for me, they aren’t simply spies out to dig up all your secrets.” Moriarty’s shoulders shook in a fit of laughter before gesturing out over the rooftop. “Somewhere over there in the distance is my—colleague I guess you could call him, Sebastian. You see, the thing about Sebastian is, not only is he clever, he is an extraordinary marksman. He never misses. All he needs from me is the signal.”

 

 

******

Victor pulled his cab up to the kerb in front of St. Bart’s. He sat behind the steering wheel for a moment, gazing up at the roof. He could see Sherlock clearly, his long coat fluttering behind him each time the wind blew. Then, he saw Moriarty, his hands in his trouser pockets, swaying like a child on a playground toy. He saw Sherlock turn his head and look down. Victor knew he had been searching for the taxi. He knew that Sherlock was making sure he had come.

 

Victor’s focus was shattered by a fierce banging coming from outside his window. He turned his head and came eye to eye with John. Victor swung the door open and stepped out of the cab. The look on John’s face was a combination of anger and fear.

 

“You shouldn’t have followed me,” Victor said, attempting to avoid drawing attention to them.

 

“Where is he?” John stepped within an inch of Victor, his head tilted back slightly to look the taller man in the eyes.

 

“Go home, John,” Victor replied, keeping his tone cool and calm. “This is not your fight.”

 

“What are you talking about? What fight?” John paused and watched Victor’s face. “Is it Moriarty?”

 

“You need to go, John. He doesn’t want you here. Just—turn around and go home. Go back to Baker Street.”

 

“I don’t know you and you know nothing about me.” John shook his head. “I’m his friend.”

 

“You’re a liability!” Victor raised his voice before reigning himself back in. “You’re going to end up getting yourself killed. You’re risking your life by being here and Sherlock did not want that. Let him deal with Moriarty.”

 

John watched Victor’s gaze trail towards the roof. He followed, catching a glimpse of Sherlock’s billowing coat flapping gracefully at the roof’s edge.

 

“He’s going to get himself killed!” John said. “How could you let him come here? You don’t know what you’ve done.”

 

With a deep breath, John pushed passed Victor. Victor snapped his hand out, attempting to grab the Doctor by the arm, but John just slipped through his fingers.

 

“John!” Victor called after him, fighting every urge to follow. Everything was going terribly wrong. Victor tilted his head to once again look upon Sherlock. He spoke again in a whisper.

 

“I’m so sorry.”

 

 

******

Sherlock never once took his eyes off of Moriarty and Moriarty did the same while wearing a devilish smirk. This standoff was nothing new for either man, one waiting for the other to speak first. Sherlock was the one to break the silence.

 

“So then give the signal,” he said. “If your protégé has his sights trained on me, let him take the shot.”

 

Moriarty cackled once again. “You?” he said, pulling his hands from his trouser pockets. “Oh, Sherlock. Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock.  His rifle isn’t on you. That would be too easy. But I do have to say that now I’m conflicted.”

 

“And why is that?”

 

“You’re always changing my plan,” Moriarty replied. “Sebastian has such a clear shot of your other half down on the street, but this just sweetens the deal.”

 

Moriarty paused and waited only a moment before the door to the roof pushed open. Sherlock’s eyes widened and he shook his head. John approached from the same direction Moriarty had taken. The Army Doctor’s fingers were wrapped tightly around his gun as he approached at a crawl.

 

“You see my dilemma?” Moriarty moved to within an inch of Sherlock, biting on his bottom lip. “Do I go for door number one or door number two? What to do, what to do? Oh! You choose.”

 

“Why would I do that?”

 

“Simple. If you don’t—they both die. Sebastian never misses. He will drop them both in a matter of seconds. Now choose!”

 

Sherlock’s mind raced and his eyes darted towards John, whose finger was itching at the gun’s trigger. He couldn’t have the assassin take a shot at either of them, but Moriarty had been very clear. It was one or both and Sherlock just couldn’t make that decision. Both men wouldn’t see it coming and neither had any chance of survival.

 

“Tick, tock, Sherlock,” Moriarty said with a click of his tongue. “I can see your brain flying, trying to figure a way around my little caveat. You need to choose.”

 

Sherlock looked out over the crowd that had begun to grow down on the pavement. He saw Victor looking up at him and then he turned his head and looked once again at John, the doctor’s gun at the ready. Sherlock reached out and grabbed Moriarty by the collar.

 

“I’ll choose you then,” Sherlock said, as they both balanced precariously at the edge of the roof.

 

“Then you choose yourself as well,” Moriarty laughed.

 

“Sherlock!”

 

He could barely hear John’s voice, as Sherlock was finally ready to do what needed to be done, what he had come up to the rooftop for in the first place. He tightened his grip on Moriarty and watched as the man’s face twisted.

 

“But still, just for laughs,” Moriarty choked, speaking now to someone other than Sherlock. “Aim for the heart.”

 

Immediately, the first shot came, as Sherlock and Moriarty twisted, dance-like, their feet beginning to fall over the edge. At almost exactly the same time, the second shot was heard. In a flash, the two men plunged off the roof of the building and the crowd gasped as they both tumbled to the pavement.

 

Nobody had seen the third man hit the ground.

 


	15. Chapter 15

_January 13_

The first thing he noticed was the searing pain as he attempted to slowly open his eyes to blinding sunlight. With a soft cry, he lifted his hand up to his left shoulder where his shirt was saturated with his own blood. His head ached from when he had fallen, but at that moment all he knew was that it didn’t matter how much pain he was in, or how bad is injuries were, John needed to get up. He needed to get down to the street and he needed to get to Sherlock.

 

As he pushed himself up, John didn’t want to imagine the carnage that he would see once he reached street level. With some difficulty, he inched himself along, his mind racing and shoulder burning as he headed down the way he had come up. John wished that he could will himself to move faster. He wished that he could run down those stairs but his trek was taking much longer than he had wanted.

 

As much as he wanted to keep the visions of Sherlock out of his mind, John found it much too difficult. There wasn’t any way that Sherlock could have survived that plunge. As he continued his way down the stairs, he did all he could to convince himself that Sherlock Holmes was not dead. John however, had always been a terrible liar. He couldn’t even lie to himself.

 

The buzz became more noticeable as John finally reached the street. The scene was cordoned off, but John could clearly see the deep red pools that stained the pavement. It was like he had tunnel vision. He could hear the voices around him in mumbled echoes as he dragged himself closer to where he had expected to find them both. The scene was already being cleared away; all that was left were police photographers and investigators.

 

John looked left and right at the official vehicles that lined the road, but his eyes settled on the one person who he had expected to be far from this place by now. He urged himself forward, out to the taxi that still sat on the side of the road.

 

Victor sat in the driver’s seat, his skin and clothing stained the colour crimson. He looked up at John, but said nothing.  John knew whose blood Victor wore, but he needed to hear it anyway. He needed to hear the words that solidified his greatest fear.

 

“Is he…” John couldn’t manage to finish choking out his question. “Sherlock…”

 

Victor nodded, remaining silent for a moment before finally speaking. “He’s gone. He didn’t— he didn’t have a chance. Neither of them did.”

 

John shut his eyes, using all his might to keep himself standing upright. His shoulder was stinging and his head ached. The world around him was spinning and he was angry. He was angry with Sherlock and with Moriarty, he was angry with Victor and he was angry with himself.

 

“You’re hurt,” Victor said softly.

 

John’s laugh was painful, revealing everything he was feeling at that very moment. “So what,” he said, drawing the attention of Lestrade, who was still on the scene. “I’m hurt. So—what? Sherlock is dead. He’s dead, Victor. He needed to be some sort of hero, needed to settle some kind of vendetta against Moriarty. This was his fight and nobody else’s. He had to do this his way, just like everything else and now—he’s dead.”

 

John shook his head in a futile attempt to erase everything that had just happened, as if he could rewind time and have everything go back to the way things were before. He choked back the tears that were fighting to be released, calling on every ounce of strength he had left.

 

“I want to see him,” John said as Lestrade approached him from behind.

 

“We need to get you looked at,” Lestrade urged gently. His face was worn and his expression almost hopeless. For a man whose job involved him dealing with death on a regular basis, Lestrade was facing something different now, the death of a colleague, of a friend.

 

“Greg,” John added simply.

 

Lestrade took a deep breath. He knew that he wasn’t going to get John to agree to anything before seeing Sherlock.

 

“Come on,” Lestrade said, leading John slowly back towards St. Bart’s. He watched John’s pale, expressionless face as they reached the door to the morgue. John had been closer to Sherlock than anyone and Lestrade was unsure how he was going to react once he entered the room.

 

“That other friend of Sherlock’s, the cab driver,” Lestrade said as they stood outside the doors, “He managed to break through the crowd when Sherlock fell.” He paused. “He—died on impact.”

 

“Is Molly working the post-mortem?”

 

“We told her that she might want to pass this one on to somebody else, but she insisted.”

 

“She loved Sherlock.” John rested his hand on the mortuary doors.

 

“She’ll be present for a post-mortem,” Lestrade added, “If there even is one, which I doubt. As for an inquest— Mycroft might just want this whole thing to disappear.”

 

John was disgusted with this entire situation. Of course Mycroft would want to sweep this all under the rug as if it never happened. That way, he wouldn’t have to deal with any of it.

 

John couldn’t bear it any longer. He felt sick to his stomach, most likely due to the blood loss, and he just wanted to see Sherlock. He just wanted to say goodbye to his friend. He took a slow, deep, determined breath and pushed his way inside.

 

With the exception of the two covered examination tables, the morgue was empty. John moved slowly towards the table closest to him, knowing just by looking at it that the sheet covered Sherlock’s broken body.

 

John grabbed at his shoulder; the pain was becoming more and more unbearable. He stared absently at the sheet that covered his friend and waited a moment before reaching out and pulling it back slightly.

 

John’s breath caught in his throat as he looked down at Sherlock’s face. His usually lively, dark hair was plastered to the side of his head but he looked surprisingly at peace. John placed his hand down on Sherlock’s covered shoulder and left it there for a moment, studying his face, recalling each expression that had graced it.

 

“Sherlock?” John spoke softly. “If you just—open your eyes now. Maybe I’m still up on the roof, maybe this is all a hallucination, a nightmare. Maybe you’re still alive. Sherlock—can you just do something to tell me that none of this is real?”

 

He knew it was wishful thinking, but John couldn’t help it. He was not ready to live in a world without Sherlock Holmes. That was something unimaginable to him.

 

Sherlock wasn’t coming back. Death was permanent and Sherlock was undoubtedly dead. John felt himself becoming sick to his stomach. He drew in a deep breath through his nose and pursed his lips tightly. He slowly lifted the sheet back up and over Sherlock’s face. This was goodbye.

 

As he backed out of the mortuary, John had all but given in to the excruciating pain radiating though his arm. He looked down at it once again, pressing his fingers to the wound with a cringe.

 

“John?” Lestrade quickly approached him.

 

“Can we just—go?” he asked. “I’m in agony.”

 

Lestrade nodded, leading him away from the morgue and out into the hallway. “Do you want me to call anybody?” Lestrade asked as John settled himself down into a seat.

 

John shook his head.

 

“What the hell happened up there, John?” Lestrade asked, running his fingers back through his hair.

 

“I don’t know,” John replied honestly. “I really just—don’t know.”

 

“John?” a worried female voice called from the distance.

 

Both men turned their heads to see Mary rushing towards them. “I’m going to leave you two,” Lestrade said to John. “We’ll talk later.”

 

Mary hurried to where John sat, falling to her knees in front of him. “Oh my God,” she said. “I got a phone-call, they told me you were here, they told me you were hurt…”

 

“I’ll be fine.” John swallowed hard. “The doctors will fix me up, I’ll be…”

 

Mary reached out and grabbed his hands, giving them a gentle squeeze. She watched John’s face as he lost his composure. He simply couldn’t hold it back any longer.

 

“Sherlock…” John choked.

 

 “I know.” She pulled John closer and he leaned forward against her, his tears finally breaking through.

 

John was overwhelmed, his emotions in overdrive. Between the physical and emotional pain, he wasn’t sure what to feel anymore. He longed for numbness. He didn’t want to feel anything.

 

“I’m going to have to—tell…” John could barely speak. Not only was Sherlock gone, but sooner or later, Mary was going to have to learn the truth about Richard. “What am I supposed to do, Mary?”

 

“Shh,” Mary soothed him. Her hands rubbed gently against his back as he shook in her arms. “You’re going to be OK. You’re going to be fine, John. Everything is going to be fine. I promise.”

 

“You can’t make that promise,” John said, pulling back so that he could look her in the eyes.

 

Mary lifted her hand and cupped John’s cheek. “Have I ever lied to you?”

 

John shook his head.

 

“I know you loved him. I know that he was your best friend. And even though Sherlock was—he never said it, but I know that he cared about you just as much as you cared about him.”

 

John thought back to what Victor had said earlier. Sherlock had never wanted him here. He had known that this showdown with Moriarty was not going to have a happy ending. He was trying to keep John safe. What Sherlock hadn’t foreseen however, was that even if John hadn’t been on that roof, he would still be broken. Sherlock wouldn’t have saved him after all.

 

“You’re strong, John,” Mary said, “Stronger than any man I know. You’re going to get through this. I’m going to help you.”

 

John leaned forward again, he forehead resting on Mary’s shoulder. She wrapped her arms around him tightly, securely.

 

“You still have me,” Mary spoke in a whisper. “We’ll make it together.”


	16. Chapter 16

**_ THE BLOG OF DR. JOHN H. WATSON _ **

_July 10_

_ Six Months Later _

__

_I’ve been rather absent lately. Each time I sit down and try to write something, it usually ends one of three ways:_

  1. _I delete the entire thing._
  2. _I end up keeping my entry private_
  3. _I can’t think of anything to write at all_



_More times than not, I’m stuck with option three.  It’s not that I don’t know what to say, it’s that I can never find the right words to convey exactly how I feel. I honestly don’t think that those words exist and if they do, somebody needs to teach them to me because ever since January, I’ve felt, for lack of a better term, lost._

_Whoever it was that said time makes things easier was a liar. It has been 179 days and I still wake up some nights in a cold sweat. It’s been half a year and still I wonder if things would have ended differently if I had never gone up on that roof. And, although Mary is constantly telling me that it’s not true, I often blame myself for Sherlock’s death._

_For a long time, I was angry with other people. I was angry with Sherlock for going up on that rooftop alone. I was angry with Moriarty for being the evil, bastard that he was. I was angry with Victor for allowing Sherlock to confront the criminal on his own. But in the end, I am angry with myself. I’m angry that I couldn’t do something to save him, I’m angry that all I could do was look down at my best friend, laying on a slab in the mortuary and wonder ‘what if.’_

_Physically, my wounds have healed. I only have another scar to add to my collection. Having Mary around has helped a lot. We’ve been a help each other to be honest. Learning the truth about what had happened to her cousin Richard was difficult for her, but she grieved and I am grateful that she was able to do that. Moriarty took a lot of things from a lot of people, but allowing Mary the time she needed to mourn was one of the positive things that came from his death._

_I have since left 221B. With Sherlock gone, it simply didn’t feel like home any more. To be quite honest, I was beginning to feel like a grieving widow holed up inside that flat. While I was thankful for the cooked dinners and the invitations to tea or the pub, I knew that for me to begin moving forward with my life I needed to leave that place. It broke my heart to say goodbye to that part of my life, but I welcome what the future may hold for me._

_Mary and I are getting married in autumn. I don’t know what I would do without her. She has been brilliant in dealing with me over the last few months. Her patience and understanding know no bounds and I am a lucky man. All things considered, I am truly a lucky man._

_Looking back now, I remember making my very first entry to this blog. ‘Nothing happens to me.’ I was a different man then. I was lost in a world that should have been familiar, caught in between who I was before Afghanistan and who I had become and nothing made sense. I was unhappy and what I wrote was true. Nothing ever did happen to me—until I met Sherlock. My life changed forever that day and I’ve never looked back. Not having him here hurts. He was my best friend and I owe him so much more than he knew. He saved me from myself, rescued me from an uneventful life. Because of Sherlock Holmes, everything happened. My life wouldn’t be what it is today if it hadn’t been for him. There will never be a day that goes by when I don’t think of Sherlock. My life is better for having known him._

_I suppose it’s about time I wrap this up. Greg has finally convinced me to go out for a pint and Mary has been on me to spend some time with my old friends. It might be nice to get out for a change. I guess we’ll see how things go. (Read More)_

 

 

John moved the mouse, hovering over the ‘post’ button, looking back at what he had just written.  He wavered between clicking or not, arguing with himself internally. Finally, with a deep breath and a determined nod, John clicked the button, sending his post into cyberspace.

 

He shut his laptop and stood from his seat, giving his neck a roll. Slowly, John stepped out of the room and into the lobby. He checked his trouser pockets for his keys and mobile before turning back.

 

“Mary!” he called back into the flat. “I’m going to meet Greg at the pub.”

 

John really didn’t want to go, but knew that he needed to at least make an effort to return to some sort of normalcy.

 

Lestrade had called him at least once a week since Sherlock’s death, most likely in an attempt to ensure John hadn’t done something rash in his depression.  Mrs. Hudson stopped by regularly for the first few weeks after John moved out of 221B. He knew that Mary had kept in constant contact with her, even when the visits slowly came to a stop.

 

Mycroft, however, never contacted John. Through Molly, he had learned that there had been no post-mortem and Mycroft refused the inquest on Sherlock.  John had been correct in his thinking that Mycroft would just make everything disappear. He was notorious for that. Since that day in January, there were no calls, no texts and no unexpected visits. Mycroft did not surface and now, six months later, John still didn’t know what had become of the elder Holmes.

 

Mary hurried to meet John by the door, her hair falling loosely over her shoulders. John smiled when he saw her, he always did and it was always genuine.

 

“Are you going to be alright?” Mary asked. “I know it’s been a while.”

 

John nodded, pushing Mary’s hair behind her ears. “Of course,” he smiled, leaning forward and pressing a kiss to her forehead.

 

Mary took John’s face in her hands and kissed him gingerly before resting her forehead against his. “Try to have some fun tonight.”

 

John nodded once again, pausing a moment before he turned and headed out the door.

 

Down the road, a cab pulled to the kerb, idled for a moment and then drove off. It made a series of random rights and lefts for about fifteen minutes before beginning to drive out of London. Victor reclined in the back seat, leaning his head back and watching out the window as the view slowly changed. He was much too familiar with the trek by now, but something about that night was different. It forced a smile to his face and he felt surprisingly at ease with himself.

 

Victor lost track of time after an hour and the cab continued driving. With a deep sigh, he rolled down the rear window just slightly as he continued to stare out. He inhaled deeply, memorizing the scent of his approaching destination. It was much different than the city, there was a crisper smell in the air and it put Victor at peace.  

 

The night was surprisingly tranquil and clear, the moon lighting up the sky as Victor neared his final destination. The taxi crawled stop and Victor stepped out of the back. He walked for an additional ten minutes, following path that he knew by memory before shoving his hands in his trouser pockets and coming up with a set of keys. With one turn, Victor made his way up to the front door of the flat.

 

It was dark as Victor stepped inside, but he didn’t put on the lights. Instead, he kicked off his shoes and padded into the sitting room, where the armchairs were arranged in front of the window. Victor smiled, made his way towards them and quietly took a seat. There was silence for a moment and Victor turned his head to the left, resting it on the back of his chair.

 

“He’s gone out for the night,” Victor said gently. “I think Mary’s finally convinced him that hiding away isn’t going to help.” He paused. “Sherlock?”

 

Sherlock went unmoved; his head leaned back as he gazed out the window. His hair was cropped short and his arms were folded across his chest. He shifted his weight gently to face him, cringing slightly as he moved in his chair.

 

“Good,” Sherlock finally responded. “John’s going out, he’s moving forward. Good. Things need to continue this way. It’s needs to be as if I truly am dead.”

 

Victor took a deep breath. “No problem there,” he said. “Nobody suspects anything. I’ve been watching for months. Believe me, Sherlock—you’re dead.”

 

“What about Mycroft?” Sherlock asked.

 

“He’s still in Yorkshire with your mum,” Victor said. “It’s been harder on him than you think.”

 

“This is the way it needs to be,” Sherlock repeated.

 

They fell into silence again. Victor noticed that for someone driven by such determination, there was a deep sadness in Sherlock’s eyes. Sometimes, he seemed lost within himself, cursed by the task he had decided to take on alone.

 

“Are you going back out?” Sherlock asked, twisting in his seat to look out the window once more.  

 

“No,” Victor said, leaning back in his own chair, mimicking Sherlock’s position. “It’s a clear night. I thought it might be nice to stay in.”

 

Silence fell again as their eyes focused on the night sky, the stars burning brightly against a dark canvas. It had been years since Sherlock simply stared out at the sky. He had forgotten what he found so pleasurable about it. It was in that moment that he finally remembered.

 

Out of the corner of his eye, Victor would swear, that for the first time in months, he saw Sherlock smile.


End file.
